


Landscape

by seperis



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Mental Institutions, Multi, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-01-15
Updated: 2006-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Lex Luthor didn't end the world before the one time he may learn how to save it.</p><p>This is a work in progress and is not complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ground Zero

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this is basically due to svmadelyn and issaro. When I stopped writing, they reminded me, and when I stopped caring, they sort of didn't, and when I tried to delete it, they talked me down. cjandre walked me through plot problems, issaro beta'ed every word and sometimes went over it twice.

He's not sure where he is. 

The navigation system gave out six hours ago, the engine two. He's not sure of the time since his watch froze, eternally at eighteen to three, like some paperback horror novel on the discount shelf that didn't understand real horror always starts at midnight. Walking's not smart in the Arctic, but coming hadn't been either, and that hadn't stopped him.

He's so *awake*.

After five sleepless days and nights of an Arctic winter, he's never been this wired in his life. Something to do with the stimulants, perhaps; more with the way exhaustion and rage became a world all their own. 

It's hours, or days, or just seconds when he sees it, for the first time and maybe the last time. It's what he expected and nothing he expected at all--Fortress or glorified igloo, pick a term, colored like the snow and about as friendly. But it lets him inside, and that's all he cares about.

The heavy metal doors open at a touch, a slow progression of light chasing itself down the hall like a path he follows as blindly as the instincts that led him north. He hates the cold stone, the way that it reminds him of the castle in dream-images, like the memory of memory. It's easier to follow than think, feeling the snow melting from his coat, the prickle-burn of slowly, slowly warming fingers and face.

Somewhere a thousand miles back is dynamite and nitroglycerine, left behind when the engine cut and instinct took over. Now, he's not sure that would have been the answer, even if he'd known the question.

God, he's so tired.

The main chamber comes to life with a slow, subliminal grind that Lex can feel in his bones.

"Lex Luthor." The voice is contralto female, richly toned, and it's almost as if she's standing in the room. It's indecent. Only Clark would want to humanize a computer like this. "State your purpose." If the AI were human, he'd say it was hostile. If it were human, they wouldn't be having this conversation, though. He's listing into the wall, head aching.

"Can't I just drop in for a visit?"

The silence stretches. It's waiting, and it can, because it's ageless. It's patient. And he's not, never has been, never grasped the reason why he should *have* to be. "I want to see him."

"You do not have access permissions here."

Computers are stupid. They follow instructions, bound by the parameters created by their programmers. A smart person can tell a computer the sky is green and it'll believe it, if you know the way to tell it. If all he wanted were databanks, he could do that, no problem. What he needs, though, is something only the AI can provide. "Does it matter?"

There's something surreal about arguing with a machine, even this one, but it knows him like it knows them all. His name didn't get him in here, but his DNA did and always will. Like calls to like. "A recording was released to the newswires two point five days ago--"

"Not that. I want what you saw."

"State your purpose."

Lex takes another step into the room, pausing as the door closes behind him. Light like something out of a near-death experience, but so cold, and how could Clark live here and think he could ever find anything close to peace? Another step, he's so close to the glow of the screen that he should be able to feel it like heat. "James Friedman. Eric Mahoney. Edward Michael Trew. Dr. Lizabeth Parkinson. Timothy Allen Davis. Josephina--"

"Current employees of LexCorp."

"There's nothing current about them." Lex stares at the screen, wondering why he's bothering. It's just-- "Lucas Dunleavy Luthor. Pete Ross. Senator. Lana Ross. His wife. Chloe Sullivan. Inquisitor reporter. Lois Lane. Planet reporter. Clark Kent. Planet reporter. Her husband." Lex takes a deep breath. "I want to see what you saw."

Another pause, and it works on drug-enhanced nerves like sandpaper, rubbing him raw from the inside out. This need to twitch and move and scream that's always burning just below the surface of his skin. They've called him crazy for so long that he can't remember when they weren't right.

"It would serve no purpose--"

Christ save him from machines with delusions of judgment. "It would for me. Why did you let me in?"

"You are incapable of threatening this facility or using it to threaten any other on the planet." There are far more interesting things now for that particular career choice, it doesn't say. It doesn't need to. "Why are you here?"

There are reasons on reasons, but the important things always stayed the same. Jesus, he's so tired of explaining, even if it's only to himself. "I need to know." It hurts to say it, God, it's been so *long* since he needed anyone for anything. He wonders what the computer hears in his voice.

The AI rumbles something, and Lex watches the lights with a kind of fascination, because he *remembers* lights the way he remembers so fucking little that's ever mattered. Just watching it, it looks like any machine in the world, mindless and silent, unable to offer answers to the questions Lex doesn't know how to ask.

"I need to see him."

*****

Memory's a tricky thing. It twists and changes with time and experience, with what-should-be to what-could-have-been, until sometimes, he's not sure of the difference. He hated Clark for longer than he ever loved him, but he never forgot him.

He remembers this.

It had happened so fast--he remembers ducking beneath the rubble of the building, gun in his hand, like it was any kind of use against machines with dreams of conquest, like anything he did could be any kind of deterrent at all. He remembers stepping over Mercy's body and kneeling by Hope, as if he could save her, as if he could save anyone at all, even himself. Murmuring words into her ear that didn't mean shit, because they were all dead and this was just marking time.

He remembers putting the gun against her temple and giving her the peace he couldn't give himself. Remembers the screaming and the silence and the bodies he'd stepped over like litter.

And he remembers Clark.

Not Superman, caped and alien, blurred images that overlap from a thousand encounters, but Clark, like he'd been in Lex's never-reliable memory, suddenly this too-pretty man in a ridiculous outfit with serious, too-old eyes. 

Clark, beside him, catching him when he fell, hand over the wound he hadn't known he had. It was way too much like Smallville, except Clark's fashion sense had taken a downturn. He'd have said it, too, if he could have found the breath to speak.

He hadn't, he couldn't, he didn't, and now, God, he wished he had.

He remembers Clark's hands and Clark's slow, sweet smile, and he remembers the way he couldn't believe that even Clark could be this naive, to think that he could do anything against this. 

"You can't save everyone, Clark," Lex had said, and God, what the *fuck*? Like those were last words that meant anything, but he'd meant them, every one of them. Stop fucking trying, Clark, a million are dead and a billion more will die, just fucking *stop*. Get the fuck out of here.

Not that Lex had ever taken advice like that. 

Clark had just smiled.

"You can't save everyone," he'd said, and Clark had just laid him down and touched his face, like they were kids in Smallville playing at grown-up manipulation, playing rivals that become enemies, playing at everything that they'd never wanted to be. 

"But I can save you."

*****

The recording of the thing that was brought to the Fortress doesn't look like anything Lex can recognize as human. As Clark.

Is that what you needed to see? The AI doesn't need to ask it for Lex to hear it, the thrum of the Fortress rocking him in his chair. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was angry. If he could think, he'd wonder if it even *could* be.

He can't. Lex doesn't answer.

*****

He falls asleep, at some point. When he wakes up, the image is still there.

*****

"Are you sure?" That he's dead, because he's *Superman*, for Christ's sake, and Lex had tried to kill him and never had. There was always comfort in that, a twisted kind, the man he could never give up, would never let go.

"Yes." For a machine, it sounds almost sad. "I verified his demise at twenty two and sixteen--"

"How the hell can anyone be sure?"

"His body ceased to absorb radiation," the machine answers slowly, like it's talking to an idiot child, not Lex Luthor, so fucking brilliant, Lex Fucking Luthor who could do anything and have everything and make anyone do whatever he wanted except this fucking machine didn't seem to know that. "Metabolic processes were absent. Brain scans showed no electrical activity after seventy-two hours of observation."

Lex breathes slowly. "What did you do with his body?"

"Cremated, as per his instructions."

Of course. Not leave his body to whatever hungry fascinations scientists would have with their not-quite-immortal alien. As if any scientists left had the time to care.

"I don't remember any of it." His voice seems to crack, though that's not right. "He didn't stop it, did he?"

The computer is silent for too long, and Lex's chest tightens. "It was badly damaged at the end, before it left. It will take time for it to reassemble itself, but no, it was not destroyed."

He knew that, somehow. Knew it like he knew his name, knew he breathed, and knew Clark had died and died for nothing.

"A fucking waste."

Like talking in a tomb. He wants to raze it down and salt the ground where it stood, do clichéd and dramatic and over the top things, but it seems such a waste of energy compared to sitting. Superman had to die, and if he was going to, it was going to be Lex who did it, Lex, who knew him better than anyone living and didn't know him at all. But Superman hadn't died in the middle of Virginia, in a forgettable field surrounded by the bodies of LexCorp's best and brightest. Superman hadn't, wouldn't have, thrown himself into a war he could never win. Superman was smarter than that, Lex knew it. He *knew* him.

He knew Superman, but it wasn't Superman who died in twisting, melting metal, slow and silent and staring into the sky he came from. Only Clark would have been that stupid. Only Clark would fucking *get up* and go to die like that. 

Only Clark would have done that, and only Clark would have thought that Lex's life, anyone's life, was worth it. 

"A fucking *waste*."

His hand aches, and Lex stares at bruising skin, the console, the edge that deflected him. It should hurt more.

"Yes." And with that, the computer seems done with him, screen going dark and silent. He doesn't move, though if ever an artificial intelligence could use body language to indicate he was to get his ass out, this one did, with dimming lights and a chill to the room as the temperature gauge fell. 

He doesn't care.

"You couldn't teach him better than that?" And somewhere in his head, it seems like a logical question. "Christ, your people were what, suicidal? How the fuck can you have been an advanced civilization? How the fuck did you survive getting the fuck up in the morning?"

A few lights flutter lazily, like the slow blink of an eye. It's annoying as shit.

"We didn't."

*****

Thirty-four straight hours haven't given him any more answers than he'd had when he arrived.

"Did it hate him? Clark?" It seems like it must have. The targets had been so strangely specific, a connect the dot from California to Virginia, Chloe Sullivan to Lex Luthor and everyone and everything in between. 

The computer doesn't like him, but it lets him access information, though he hasn't tested the limits of its security, and between flickers of the screen, he falls asleep on the console, dreamless sleep filled with suffocating silence. The thing that killed Clark will be back and there's no one to stop it, because the Justice League is hopelessly outclassed and possibly dead, and Superman is gone, but not forgotten, or so a thousand television talk shows and CNN keep reminding him, like he needs the reminder.

And he hates Clark a little, a lot, sometimes when he's staring at the news reports, sometimes when he's studying one of a thousand bits of data the computer gives him, the ones Clark accessed before he lost his mind and died and left them alone.

A thousand bits that tell him the same thing the first did--that kryptonite is good for anything and everything, and most especially for this thing, and the entire world can mourn or prepare as they pleased, but they'd better get ready to mourn themselves.

"I do not know." He's beginning to suspect the entire computer-drone voice thing is deliberate, just to annoy him. He lived half his life with Lionel Luthor. The AI doesn't even come close to the mindgames his father could play.

"But you suspect?" Sometimes, it helps if he's specific.

"The--entity--seems to have no pattern other than mass destruction."

"And targeting of Clark's family and friends." Or enemies, as the case might be. Very familiar enemies. "There's a pattern." A few flickers of his fingers bring up a new screen that vanishes before he even has the chance to read it. "Get that back up."

"You do not have permission--"

Lex bangs on the keyboard. "The world's fucking ending anyway. What the hell do you think I'm going to *do*? I don't want to die."

The news is becoming amusingly hopeful. It almost scares him, if he had the energy or cared enough to bother. They think it's over.

"I'm aware of that." The dry voice makes him twitch. "Nevertheless--"

"Fuck *off*. You want that thing coming back?" Though come to think, it might not care. Superman's dead and this thing has no link to humanity. "You think Superman would have wanted that?" Though it may not give a good shit about that, either.

"I do not pretend to understand Kal's--eccentricities."

Lex almost grins. He'd never understood them either. "There's got to be a way to stop it." Superman hadn't found it, but Superman was for shit when it came to advanced tactics. That's why he'd had--had Bruce. 

He winces away from memory again, turning his gaze on the screen. At least the damned computer wasn't arguing with him about accessibility. "There's got to be something here."

The screen seemed to freeze, briefly, and Lex found himself staring up at the lights like they were eyes, like he could read something in them. Stupid and fucking insane, but he's okay with that right now. "You know something."

"Yes, and no."

Fuck. Twenty questions time. Again. "Can't you be specific?" 

"I'm not--sure--that the information will be applicable to the situation at hand."

Of course not. That would make things *easy*. "You want this?" He waves toward the walls, feeling that rise of rage again that starts somewhere impossibly deep. Hate and anger and hurt. He's not sure he's ever felt anything else. "It's going to get itself together and *kill everyone*. You can't tell me why, you can't even tell me what it wants."

"This facility--"

"He's *dead*." Lex isn't sure when it will become real, isn't sure why repetition doesn't make it any different. It feels like a dream, where you can't run fast enough and everything happens in slow-motion and waking up is the only thing in the world that makes it okay. "There has to be a way--"

"There isn't." The computer pauses. "Not in this place."

Lex lets out a slow breath, staring at the monitor, waiting, but it stops there, like it has any right to. Fucking machines and their drama. "What do you mean?"

The pause may only be something Lex can hear, the nonexistent clicks of a computer thinking, and there should be something to remind him this isn't a real person, a human being, but then again, real is so subjective these days, isn't it? Nothing feels real here, feels real now, and it's this place that makes it. Like leaving, which he wants to do ten times an hour, will change it, will make it fact. No matter how many times he watches Clark die, it won't be true until he's in what remains of Metropolis and accepts that the sky will never see him again.

It's not fucking *acceptable*.

"What do you *mean*?"

The computer doesn't answer, but the monitor whirls to life, bringing up equations like Windows contemplating a breakdown, too fast for Lex to get anything but alphanumeric combinations in unlikely places, random symbols he can't possibly understand. 

It takes forever to comprehend what it's showing him; it takes even longer to believe it, reaching out with one hand to touch the screen, freezing the image. It's so--it's--

"How?" he says slowly.

The computer's voice is strangely gentle. "That depends," it says, slow and careful, "on what you're willing to risk."


	2. Ground Zero

Lex opens his eyes on the ceiling of his room.

No, *not* his room, not quite. The sheets feel cool, like he hasn't been in them long, and Lex looks down, surprised to see himself half-dressed, unbuttoned silk shirt and unfastened pants, tie twisted around one reddened wrist and, strangely, fastened to the post of the bed. That's--different?

That's disturbingly strange, in fact, even for his life.

Sitting up, he picks the knot with his teeth, smelling dried come and blood in the fine weave, wincing at the free movement of blood again, stretching his fingers out to get circulation going again. There's blood under his nails and his back's begun to sting, and God, now he's feeling it. The kind of sex that fifteen through thirty-five spent serious time indulging in, before sex was as boring as everything else, and that, Lex thinks, says more about just how fucked up he is than anything else ever could.

Sliding out of the bed, Lex shivers, hands sliding to the buttons of his shirt and finding none. The room looks like his own, even if he isn't quite. His balance feels off--the body doesn't match the mind quite enough. Apparently, this one doesn't eat quite enough, thinner in some way Lex can feel more than see. He thinks he might be hungry.

A shower makes everything better, or at least, less weird. Showers are pretty much the one thing that life cannot fuck up. Hot water and soap, and Lex closes his eyes, pretending this is any morning in his life, the morning after, maybe, that at forty-five, he should fucking have gotten over already.

His hands linger on the lines of someone's fingernails on chest and stomach, though, bruised skin, pulled muscles reluctantly relaxing beneath the flow of hot water. He's way too old for this shit.

The clothes seem familiar, though, military precise rows, dry cleaning bags, sorted by color and type. He can close his eyes, reach for any two pieces of clothes, and they'll match. He's predictable like that.

"You're up early." 

Lex doesn't have time to freeze at the sound of that voice so close to his ear; Clark always moves like water, but not even *sensing* him says some uncomfortable things, most of them about Clark himself. It takes a beat to relax, fighting down the reflexive surge of fear and anger, another body's instincts, but Clark doesn't seem to notice, nose against Lex's neck.

Even so, it's a lifetime's worth of control to stop the wince when sharp teeth sink into his bare shoulder.

The worst part is, this body doesn't even move. "Clark."

It's been a long time since he's shaped the name to the face of the man, hard consonants and flat vowels curving around his tongue, but it feels familiar. Familiar as the bloody lines on his body and the teeth on his skin, and the low hum of spiked pleasure. It's all going somewhere, but his mind's caught between two conflicting instincts, and only one set is his own.

Clark turns him around with effortless ease, and a blur of dark hair and swamp-green eyes are lost in the first hard kiss.

Lex sucks in a slow breath when Clark lets go, tasting blood. This Clark plays a little rough.

"Up way too early," Clark murmurs, and Lex opens his eyes.

Knowing and seeing are two different things. His body may have given him the clues, but not this kind, and the man who watches him from Clark's eyes is the one that matches those marks on his body, tracing his bare back with possessive fingers, smiling with slow heat, pushing him a half-step back with a puzzled expression but not quite letting go.

Lex has no idea why he just stands there. This body didn't come with an operating manual, after all.

"Something's wrong." It doesn't even pretend to be a question. Lex takes in the mess of dark hair, the exquisite cut of his jacket, the painful perfection of a beautiful man dressed by someone who knows clothes and knows all the things they can say. Clark--his Clark in a suit was Clark in flannel, awkward and uncomfortable, saying, ignore me. This Clark's never met awkward, and uncomfortable is for lesser people.

"Lex." Big hands rest on his shoulders, shaking him like a puppy. Lex blinks away the surprise, trying to hold his balance on unfamiliar feet. It's not easy. "What's wrong with you?"

Clark doesn't expect Lex's retreat, which is the only reason Lex can pull it off, disguising it as a reach into the closet for clean pants. The superfine material slides over his skin easily, and his hands even get to the fastenings before Clark's in front of him, and Lex is against the wall. It might be Superman in the room, not Clark, except Superman, in Lex's memory, never used his strength quite like this.

"Lex." The warning tightness of fingers in his shoulder will leave bruises. Clark would never have done that. Superman, either, even at his most righteously enraged, but this one hikes Lex up against the wall until his toes barely brush the floor. Surprise is the understatement of the century. "Don't fucking ignore me. What the hell is up with you?"

Lex takes a deep breath and fails. "I--had a bad night." It could be true, since he doesn't remember the last time he really slept, but the context of the Arctic is needed and Lex can't explain that without being reduced to explanations of relativity and how many impossible things there are in the universe that man has yet to touch. His mind's still not wrapped around it.

Also, explaining? Very stupid.

"You were sleeping okay when I left." But Clark lets him down, one hand freeing his shoulder to circle his bruised wrist. The marks are fading slowly, but Clark smiles as he raises it to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against the broken veins. Big knuckles graze his chin, and Lex is completely surprised by the urge to flinch. That, too, is new.

It's your mind, but that body, the AI had told him, and he hadn't considered body memory when he said yes. This body's remembering things that Lex's mind doesn't understand.

"We have a meeting this afternoon," Clark tells him, smiling now, dismissing everything else. Taking a step back, he glances through the closet, and the Clark of before never, ever would have studied the myriad shades of purple for that long. Nor with such interest. "The violet silk."

Lex is reaching for it before he even realizes he's doing it. It's an actual effort to freeze his hand inches away. Lex knows himself, down to the chromosomes that made him and the mutation that changed him. Whatever happened to this body, to this man, it can be summed up in the fact the hand that reaches for that shirt shakes, and that tells him everything.

"Lex?"

Lex closes his eyes. "I'll be down in a few minutes."

That seems to satisfy him; Clark leaves as silently as he came, and Lex listens to his nerves this time, that tell him when Clark's no longer in the room. Never out of sight or out of hearing, perhaps, but the overwhelming physical presence is gone and Lex can breathe again.

Breathe and pull away and turn around, take in the room again, looking for himself, or whatever passes for him here.

"This wasn't what I expected." He's talking to empty air. It's Belle Reve all over again, except this time, his voices are real and the world's compressed into this room, that man, and the mirror that shows Lex Luthor, billionaire and the most powerful man in the world, scared to death by a man he once thought he could kill.

Lex walks to the bed, looking at it. Blood-stained and messy with a night of sex, abraded wood and ripped sheets. The ache's almost gone, relegated to the periphery of his mind, and he heals fast, he always had. Lex shuts his eyes for a second, grounding himself.

This really isn't what he expected.

*****

The staff is invisible. Good staff is invisible, but Lex has lived in power all his life, and he knows the difference between good and the kind of fear that makes them move like ghosts. A flicker of a skirt or a starched shirt, coffee on the table without any visible means of transportation, and Clark, this indolent, reclining presence at the table.

There's no practical way to reconcile what he's seeing to what he knows, so he doesn't try. That way lies madness and drug overdoses. So Lex doesn't, pasting a smile on his face as he sits down.

The green eyes narrow as they take in the red shirt, but Lex just takes a cup of coffee, wondering if he really wants to read the paper neatly folded beside the plate of dry toast. 

"You seem really--" Clark's frowning, and Lex thinks of those fingers, so casually wrapped around a mug of coffee, cutting blue lines into his right shoulder. If he wasn't left handed, he'd be having a really bad morning right now.

"I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well." Lex keeps his eyes on the paper. The front page for the Daily Planet is graced by Chloe, not Lois, and Lex feels the sparkle of the other memories. This could be a danger, the AI had explained. Getting lost in Now and forgetting Then. Losing the entire point of this exercise in insanity.

There is, Lex thinks, a good chance he's actually back in his old room at Belle Reve right now, screaming about the apocalypse while many a friendly, faceless doctor shoots him up. Even his metabolism hadn't known what to do with psychotropics. When Clark reaches across the table and Lex's body stiffens, he almost wishes that were true.

Enough monkeys typing brings you the entire works of Shakespeare. Enough universes and time, there's a Clark Kent who scares the shit out of Lex Luthor over breakfast. There's not a word in the English language to adequately describe this moment. When Clark simply picks up a bagel, Lex breathes again.

"Are you planning on coming this afternoon?" Clark asks, friendly and patient, like Lex staring determinedly into his coffee cup is completely the norm, and hell, maybe it is. He still takes it black, though; Lex thinks he might have started the slow nervous breakdown percolating in the back of his mind if he found out that his first coffee of the morning needed cream these days.

"Coming?" Somehow, though Clark's voice makes it sound dirty, he's almost sure Clark isn't referring to sex. The dark head bends, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, and Lex remembers that while Clark had always played the part of dense farmboy, the mind behind those eyes is frighteningly sharp. Ten times that now, the habit of suspicion written on his face. Lex watches him stands up, crossing the room with cool elegance, this grace that Clark could never have mastered, this ease inside his own skin, power barely leashed. 

Power he likes to use, Lex thinks. He takes a drink of coffee, wondering if any of this is showing on his face. And if it's too early for alcohol.

"You haven't exactly been enthusiastic about this," Clark says in a voice that echoes with petulance, the dissatisfaction of someone who is used to getting their own way and can't imagine why anyone would want something different. It is, Lex thinks, a little too close to Lex in adolescence.

Or hell, Lex in middle age. Years of commanding obedience can do strange things to a person. Lex has few illusions about what he is, but he's not sure that he's ever looked quite like that.

"I have some--errands to run," Lex says, surprising himself. He gets the feeling this Lex spends as much time on errands as possible. Away from this overwhelming presence that makes the room feel claustrophobically tight and small.

Clark's mouth turns down in dissatisfaction. "Shopping again?"

"Spring trends wait for no man, even a super man." The words are coming out of his mouth without checking in at his head. A slip through of that other personality, edging into his consciousness, and Lex pushes it back. He's the son of Lionel Luthor--compartmentalization is in his blood. "Do you mind?"

Because he gets the feeling that Lex Luthor asks that a lot here. And the implication of *that* are going to have to wait. Forever, if possible.

Clark's frown deepens. "Whatever. Just be on time for once." Turning, all exquisite silk-wool blend and too pretty face, Clark walks out, but his presence lingers in ache in Lex's shoulder. Clark's not stupid, never has been, no matter how many dumb farmboy thoughts have crossed through in the recesses of his mind. And Lex doesn't feel it would be in his best interests to find out just what this Clark does when he's actively suspicious. 

*****

Mercy and Hope are in the other car; Lex thinks that probably tells him everything he needs to know about status quo. He thought about driving himself, but he doesn't trust this world to be close enough for him to navigate. Getting lost isn't on the agenda--thinking *is*.

And thinking isn't something that goes on in that penthouse suite, Lex thinks. 

"Where to, Mr. Luthor?" asks the driver from behind the glass. Lex stares at the intercom for a minute. Where to, indeed? 

"Anywhere." And that's an order he's given before, on long nights, with a glass of scotch, wanting to be alone but not, riding through Metropolis like it's his personal demesne, which it mostly is, even if he shares it with Superman.

The driver here, too, seems to know his moods, going off without another word, and Lex shifts on the thick leather, leaning his head back into the seat. He should have found out more--at least, enough to not make any monumentally stupid mistakes that can happen when you jump universes on a whim, but *getting out* had been paramount. It was living with Lionel all over again, drugs and sex and rock and roll, or at least, sex, apparently.

The AI had been specific. To win, they needed to find the weakness. Their universe didn't stand a chance. Not with the best and brightest dead, not with Superman and half the Justice League gone, not with the world they've been left. So, this way. However the hell it's going on, with history and science reduced to mathematical equations and a chamber in the Fortress. Because he's just stupid enough to climb into an alien device and let himself be shuffled.

He really should have asked a few more questions before he agreed to do this.

Somehow, he'd grabbed a PDA off the dresser before making his great escape. Pulling it from one pocket, Lex glances down, pulling up the meeting for today. Genetic engineering. Other notes, his own code, but subtly different, cover the rest of the day. The rhythm feels off, but Lex can't quite put his finger on the dissonance--maybe the difference between this Lex and him, but he's not sure. The random Kryptonian symbols makes it that much more disconcerting. He knows enough to know he's reading the work of someone fundamentally more familiar with it. Slang? Maybe.

Maybe he should have tried to find out more from Clark.

Lex reaches for the intercom. "LexCorp Towers." Familiarity would be nice.

Lex thinks it through. Reflexive reactions hadn't been good. Neither had the compliance. None of this looks good, and he's half-tempted to start doing a history lesson, just to figure out how the hell they'd gotten to this point. The AI had said, things may be very different, with a gift for understatement that comes close to epic.

Glancing out the tinted windows, Lex watches the streets go by, an absorbing exercise when he needs to relax, less so now with the sheer lack. Oh, here and there a hurrying figure, coated and moving hastily. 

Glancing at the sky like a rabbit watching for a hawk.

Working theory--here, Clark got over his savior complex in a big way.

When the driver stops, Lex gets himself out, pushing the PDA into the recesses of his coat pocket. "I'll call," he tells the driver, seeing Mercy and Hope, materializing behind him like the shadows they usually are.

"Sir?" Mercy tells him, a note of almost-question in her voice. Now that he's here, he's not sure what to do. The AI hadn't been clear on where he was supposed to find this information. Glancing up, he realizes he's right in front of LexCorp headquarters. Some people have comfort food--Lex has comfort places. LexCorp is hot chocolate, oatmeal cookies, and a warm blanket all at the same time. Though he notes, while he kept his security sharp, the men at his door are just on the edge of full time war. And that's an awfully big gun for someone working a civilian enterprise.

Do not tarry, the AI had said, and how the hell had it come up with that word? Don't wander, don't explore. The longer you're there, the more you will be affected by the one who is already in that skin. His body will be yours, and with time, his mind as well. I don't know the effects of pulling you out with the consciousness of the other in you. You have two days in relative time. Do not tarry.

Do not tarry, and find what you need.

LexCorp seems a good place to start.

*****

His passwords are the same, and if his staff seems more rabbit than usual, refusing to meet his eyes and watching the floor like they expect it to announce end times, Lex can deal with that. His secretary looks surprised, but she doesn't duck and run, which is more than he can say for some of the executives he's seen.

His office is an oasis of complete normality. Some things don't change. Lex is Lex anywhere and everywhere, and never more Lex than when behind a desk. Even the chair fits right, though he's feeling a little off wearing red. 

The meeting is on genetics, and Lex skims it from habit, but it's not the information he's looking for. One world, one time, they defeated that thing, and even if the computer couldn't tell him which one, and Lex still doesn't understand *why*, it narrowed it down enough to make this feasible. And time in the Arctic stands still for him, so really, they have eternity if they need it.

Or as long as his sanity stays intact. The AI hadn't been really specific on what effect this kind of thing could have. Probably because no one sane would think this could possibly be a good idea.

"Hiding in your office?"

Lex is on his feet so fast he doesn't have time to think, wondering where the fear comes from, like he's caught doing--something. The woman at the door is tall, red-brown hair twisted into an elegant French knot, Lois' eyes staring at him with traces of old suspicion.

"Lois." Not on the Planet. The immaculate woman he knows isn't in this too-thin figure, still graceful as she crosses the room, but Lex's eyes catch the limp. Plain beige suit, like she's trying to blend into the scenery, and blending is a word that Lex hadn't known was in Lois' vocabulary. "Why--"

She shrugs, taking a seat, and Lex watches her warily. Like Clark, she was always pure energy unleashed, and it's disturbing to see her sitting so still. Like every part of her is as wrapped up in beige as her body. "You're up early."

This Lex is, apparently, not much for mornings. Lex isn't either, but that's never been a consideration in the business world. He hasn't slept past six, barring concussions, institutionalization, or a time zone lapse, in years.

"I wanted to get started early," Lex answers, wondering what she's doing here. That she was let in without being announced argues that she's either expected, or-- "Did Clark send you to watch me?"

Lois rolls her eyes. "Oh, now that's a shock, isn't it?" Head tilted, she studies him with clear dark eyes. "You do seem--different this morning. Didn't get your morning fuck?"

Jesus. "You can get the fuck out if that's all you have to do. I don't like being watched."

"It never bothered you before." And there's no mistaking the bitterness, or the underlying fear. Crossing her legs, Lois leans one elbow onto the arm of the chair. "Look, I don't like it any better than you do." Her body says it even better than her mouth.

Getting up, Lex circles the desk--and he doesn't like the way she shrinks a little in her chair. Lois Lane doesn't back down from anyone or anything. What is Clark, the question has been asked and answered, not completely, maybe, but he can live without the full view. But this--what is *he*?

The fading bruise on his shoulder makes him wonder. "Lois, I--" I'm sorry? What the *hell*? He's done things to her, to her family, to her friends--but that seems so much less frightening, so much less personal, than the things her body is telling him. The things his body is, just looking at her. Memories are pushing now--image shapes of a Lois he's never seen before. Flashes that start and stop too fast to grasp, but memory is more than the visual. It's sensory, in taste and smell and feeling, and the hand that touches her knows her, knows her skin and how soft it is, how fragile the bones are beneath, the way she smells, the way she feels. The way she whimpers through clenched teeth and refuses to scream, even when she should.

"What do you want?" she says, like she already knows.

Lex doesn't know. "Nothing." Pulling away, he leans back into the desk. "It was a bad night. I'm sorry."

The graceful eyebrow arch slowly, and Lex watches the soft mouth work slowly, like she's trying to force words out that won't come.

"A bad night," she says softly, and for a second, he sees the woman who makes his life a living hell on various occasions, sees the glow of the most brilliant woman he's ever met, ever wanted, and ever lost. Just a flash, gone with the intake of her breath.

"He's right. You're--" Long fingers twist together. "Lex, be careful. Ever since he started on that research, he's been--dissatisfied."

"The genetic research?" The notes alone are enough to make him want to split his attention a little--in his world, they're no where close to what they have here.

"Not just that." The implications are legion, but she just shrugs. "Just--watch it. I'm not up to another week waiting to see if you live or die because you pissed him off."

Jesus *Christ*. "I won't die."

Lois looks down. "But sometimes, you seem to want to."

There's no answer to that he can think to give. Swallowing thickly, Lex turns around, walking back to his chair, picking up a pen from the edge of the desk, just to give himself something to do. "How long are you staying?"

"He's worried about security," Lois says, and it's like she becomes a different person. "About you. After the last run-in with Ross."

Yes, that would figure. From one world to another, some things just shouldn't change. Pete Ross and family should be one of those things. "I can take care of myself."

Lois frowns, standing up. "I'll be on hand until the meeting. Just--try not to do anything stupid until then? If this gets off the ground, Clark will be way too involved trying to recreate his species to pay much attention to us." Her eyes say she hopes to God it does. Circling the desk, she leans over, brushing a surprisingly sweet kiss against his mouth. Just long enough for Lex to remember the taste of her--expensive lipstick, nicotine, soft lips and remember--

\--remember her in bed, in his bed, in *their* bed but not, and the tightly closed eyes, bitten lips, tracks of tears and the way she shudders away every time he touches her. 

She said: "You don't have to do this, Lex."

Fuck. It's too fast for him to stop, images and voices and--

He said: "We have to."

"I'd rather die."

"I won't do this alone. I can't."

The shattered pen cuts into his palm, enough to drag him out. Barely enough. That was too close.

"That's not me," he whispers, and Lois freezes, so close he can smell her. That scent all over her. Perfume and sweat and exhaustion, and Clark. Reaching up, he touches the line of her jaw, wondering if this is when he's going to start feeling this--really feeling it.

Academic exercise in world-changing is fact, created all new by the bruised look in her eyes when she looks at him.

"Lex." And there are a thousand things in her eyes, in her voice. She's Clark's whore and his, too, and he's not sure how it happened, but it had, it did, and she still can stand to come this close and let him touch her. Cares enough to warn him. 

"What we do to you--"

She pulls away, so fast she's a blur. "Don't you fucking dare--not now. Not after all this time."

"Lois." I wanted you dead. You had Clark, you had yourself, and you loved me once and then stopped, but I never would have done this. Not to you. To anyone, but never, ever to you. "I--" This Lex knows things about her that he doesn't want, and it's hard to push it back, lock it down in the deepest part of his mind, but he manages, somehow. It's the danger, the AI says, and he can hear that voice now. His body will be yours, and with time, his mind as well.

He doesn't want this man, this life. "Go."

She nods, almost frantically, taking a slow step back, then another, like she doesn't dare turn her back on him. At the door, her hand fumbles the knob, staring at him like that day on the bed that never happened, he *did not do*, and slipping out. He thinks he can hear the fast click of her heels as she leaves.

Not far, he thinks, not if Clark's making her stay. But far enough to get away from him.

Lex stares at the screen of his computer. This isn't any more real than he allows it to be. It can't be. He needs one thing, and he's done here. Just one thing.

*****

This Lex drinks a lot.

It's not a hard hypothesis to form. A glance at the bar--a bar in his *office* for God's sake, complete with a dizzying array of glasses--is disturbingly well-stocked and recently, too. Hell, he wants a drink just on speculation. 

He takes some comfort that his taste is as good as it always was. Two glasses later, he's finding his balance. Alcohol, like showers and LexCorp, is the oatmeal cookie of Lex's life.

The third glass makes life look a lot less terrifying, and Lex flickers through his computer with a much less freaked out head. Something he needs to find. Something to defeat the undefeatable, and somewhere, it's got to be here, even if they don't know it. 

A few quick glances through the databases show a lot of unfamiliar technology--Kryptonian, Lex thinks. Makes sense with this Clark. None of the worries about technological advances far ahead of the human race. A weird feeling of deja vu when he sees the meteor mutant files, chased by the neatly documented experiments, open for almost anyone to see. There are a lot of them. And not all were accidents of a meteor shower or being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It has his fingerprints all over it. As familiar as a signature, and Lex can't help looking, as much as he can't help breathing. Some of it seems familiar--this reaction documented there, this mutant here--but some isn't. Terms like 'radiation threshold' and 'susceptibility' and 'tolerance limits'. The names that scroll by aren't all familiar, but Lex suspects that they might be people that pissed him off at some point.

Or Clark.

So not what he fucking wants to think about right now.

Lex skims the pages, wondering if this is where he can find it. An immortal monster of metal that can reassemble itself. Kryptonite has no effect. Pretty much the greatest horror in human history, yadda yadda yadda, but everything has a weakness. Even Clark. So, that thing *should*.

"You know, this could start to annoy me." 

Lex stops himself from flinching at the amused voice. Looking over the screen, he closes the window and leans back, pulling out his best smirk, one of the thousand ways he learned to annoy the shit out of Clark Kent.

The narrowed eyes show it works here, too. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Clark drops onto the edge of the desk, far too close. This Clark, like the other, has no concept of personal space. Except that Clark never used it as a weapon, height and weight and pure threat, leaning over enough to stare into Lex's eyes, amusement fading.

"You run out on me and come here? To do what? Drink yourself under the desk so you have an excuse to make a mess of the meeting this afternoon? You may not give a shit about the project, but I'll be damned if you're going to act like a brat just because you can."

"I wanted to get some work done."

Clark rolls his eyes. "Like you've bothered since you appointed Gabe." Now that, Lex doesn't like at all. Not work?

It makes him wonder what exactly he does in this place.

"Besides." And the drop in Clark's voice is all the warning he needs. Stomach tight, Lex watches the slow smile with a sinking feeling. "I missed you."

"*Didn't get your morning fuck?*"

Lex slows down his breathing, picking up his glass. "I'm not in the mood." Even as Clark's hand rubs over his shoulder, just a hair too hard, reminding Lex of all the strength in those fingers. He wonders if the Lex here has to be reminded a lot. Or if Clark just likes to do it.

"Maybe I don't care."

This is the memory of Lois, sitting awkwardly in that chair. This is the memory of Lois, in that bed. This is the memory of his own voice, the scratches in his back, the fingers too-hard on his shoulder. The way Clark looks at him; it's not even personal. Just Clark, wanting to fuck someone, and Lex is right here to do it. Like that's the only reason Lex has to exist.

Lois said, be careful. Be careful, because he's dissatisfied. Be careful, her face said, her body said, because she knew. She knew what happened when Clark Kent was dissatisfied.

"Maybe we could discuss exactly what you want to accomplish at this meeting?" His hands don't shake when he raises the glass to his mouth. It's probably the hardest thing he's ever done.

Clark rolls his eyes, leaning back, but sliding over to the middle of the desk. One foot catches the seat of Lex's chair, jerking him between his legs. Lex wonders what shows on his face--fear? Anger? Or just boredom? He would do anything, anything at all, not be in this room right now.

"And here I thought you'd lost interest in anything outside those bottles and your little lab projects," Clark croons, grinning down at Lex, achingly like the kid he once knew. "We're going to get this going. I'm tired of waiting. Your scientists are perfectly capable of starting the prototypes."

"Are you sure you want a world of people just like you?" It's a calculated risk--Clark just doesn't strike him as the sharing type. 

Clark grins. "I knew you were more than just a pretty face." The big hand cuffs him, lightly for Clark, but enough to rock Lex in his chair. It doesn't hurt--much--but then again, it wasn't supposed to. A warning, Lex thinks. His dad was like that sometimes. "With careful--manipulation of the gene patterns, they won't be like me. No one will be. But they'll be my kind."

Great. Just what they need.

"After all, there are more worlds to conquer, and humans just aren't up to it." Clark smirks. "Present company excluded."

"I'm not human."

Clark laughs, and both big hands land on Lex's shoulders. "I wouldn't be with you if you were." Before Lex can think, Clark kisses him, not gentle at all, but it doesn't feel--bad. Maybe it's this body, that knows how this goes, that makes Lex relax into it, this body that makes him reach out, hands settling on big, warm thighs, makes him groan a little when Clark pulls him up, standing between those spread thighs, licking into his mouth like he's trying to fuck him with his tongue alone.

But it's not the body that makes him touch that flawless face, press himself closer, and he only wishes it was. It's a very young man in a very small town, who was rescued by a beautiful boy and fell in love for the very first time. A much older man who watched a super man die alone in a lonely field.

"Lex," Clark whispers into his mouth. Big hands are on the button of his pants, knuckles rubbing up and down his cock, somehow an arm around his waist, too, licking down his throat, pulling his shirt free, all just too-fast and too-hard, making Lex's breath catch and hard, so goddamn hard. And that's all him.

Seeing Lois had been--fracturing. But Lex could deal. Knowing Clark had become all the things Lex had ever feared of Superman--not a surprise. But feeling this--this, here, for this man, who wears Clark's face and Clark's perfect body, who's stripping him in broad daylight in his own office--that's something else. Lex isn't sure what to make of it, to make of himself, moaning into it, letting his pants fall at his ankles, bent over the desk like a hooker, with Clark's mouth on the back of his neck. So--so fucking *natural*, he knows this, this body knows this, knows how to relax and let Clark take, with one smooth thrust that he feels through his entire body. Big hand on his hip, holding him painfully tight against the desk his cock aching with the need to be touched, one hand on the back of his neck, holding him down, like there's some chance of him running away.

Like maybe the first time--

"*You've wanted this from me since I was fifteen years old. Don't fucking pretend you don't want it now.*"

Lex chokes on the way his mouth shapes no, even when he comes, so hard he feels it in his toes, eyes blacking out. Dear *God*. 

"That was fast." Clark pulls out, too fast, and Lex hisses, but Clark's just turning him over, toeing Lex's pants onto the floor before both legs go over his shoulder, pushing back in hard enough to force out a groan. Lex grabs for the edge of the wood with both hands, trying to keep some level of control. Too sensitive still, but that doesn't seem to bother Clark, running a hand up his chest beneath his shirt. Clark watches him with eyes so dark they seem black, and Lex can't read anything in them. The slow, steady pressure isn't unpleasant, but it's been years since Lex bottomed for anyone, though apparently, this Lex is comfortable with it. 

Comfortable with being used like this, on his own desk, an unlocked door, a wall between them and the secretary, Lois, anyone could walk in and see this, see them--

"Oh yeah," Clark whispers, licking a line over Lex's cheek. "So fucking *good* with you." Lex feels his hips pushed higher, and speed increasing, and Lex catches his breath, cock getting hard and hurting. It's way too soon to be this aroused, but Lex's body doesn't seem to worry about that. The ache in his shoulders spreads in this position, and Clark's sharp nails are cutting lines in his skin.

"You're so hot like this." Clark kisses him, messy and wet, biting his lip too hard. Lex tastes blood, making him even harder, and Clark seems to like that, reaching for his cock, jacking it roughly with one hand, other hand braced to keep Lex in place. "Knew it when I met you."

Lex closes his eyes. If he does that, he can almost pretend that the man inside him is someone he knows. Pretend this isn't happening at all, that he's not lying on this desk, swallowing his own blood, Clark's taste coating his mouth, filling him up, driving out reason. His body *knows* this, wants this.

"Used to whore yourself out for anyone."

And only Clark could make that sound hot, sound sexy, sound like something he's supposed to want.

"But not anymore, not anyone but me, Lex." And the last thrust *hurts*, a shock to his spine. His cock gets impossibly hard. "You learned that."

Lex opens his eyes. The other life drifts too close, and he doesn't want to see the memory that will illustrate those words.

"Come on," Clark whispers against his ear, vicious bite to the lobe, then the tender skin beneath. Marks for other people to see. "Come for me, Lex. You want it, you want to give it up for me, give up everything for me. Do it. Come. Do it, Lex."

It's a command that Lex's body gives up gladly, and through the haze, like falling into space, he feels Clark come with a bone-bending thrust, mouth against the side of his neck, panting into his skin. 

It's a long time before Clark pulls out. Lex's thighs hurt from being pulled up so long, but coming down isn't any better. Clark straightens himself easily, grinning down at Lex like they did nothing more than discuss the myriad ways to clone Kryptonians. Reaching out to pull Lex up, kissing him, sucking on his lip enough to break the fragile scab. "I like how you look after I fuck you."

Stepping back, Clark reaches for the jacket he discarded at some point, still smiling, licking Lex's blood off his teeth. "I have some things to do. Get back to--" And the smile changes, becoming a smirk, eyes taking Lex in like a conqueror of a subjugated country, "--work."

Lex doesn't move for a long time after Clark leaves.

*****

Lois finds him after he's cleaned up in the bathroom in his office--he'd jump out the window before he left this office looking like he did. There was nothing to do about the bruises or the bloody lip or the change of clothes from the suspiciously full closet inside, in all the shades of bruises. Just deal with it, like he dealt with being prepubescent and bald, and like he dealt with being adult and hated. Let other people worry about how to act around him.

There's no pity, but he thinks that he might just break if she showed any. The dark eyes fix on him briefly, a flash of feeling that he can't identify, before she leans into the door, as far into the room as she'll come.

He doesn't blame her. He can smell Clark all over him, all over the desk, sex permeating the room.

"We'd better get some lunch before we go," she says, looking at the wall to his right. She doesn't want to be here, but she was told to watch, so watch she does, without seeing a thing.

"You don't have to--"

"I really do." The irony in her smile hurts, almost as much as it hurts to sit down. Lex nods shortly, grabbing his overcoat before locking down his computer and finishing off his seventh glass of brandy. He's not even close to drunk, and that is a tragedy. "I'm supposed to be his biographer, after all."

Lois follows him down to the limo, already waiting--probably the secretary called down. Lois slides in first, slipping unobtrusively to the other side of the car so naturally, Lex gets the feeling she avoids being in closed spaces with anyone if she can help it.

Sitting down gingerly--even supersoft leather and thick cushioning doesn't make a difference when you've been fucked hard enough to draw blood--Lex tries to think of something to say to her. 

"You look tired," Lois says softly, from the miles of seat between them.

That's an understatement. If this is what this Lex deals with, no fucking wonder he gets up so late. Lex wants nothing more than bed right now--preferably his bed in his own world. Beds here, like desks, like this vehicle, aren't safe zones.

"Did Clark say anything?" Any conversation is better than the sick tangle of his thoughts.

"Just that you seemed out of sorts." Lois hesitates, like she's choosing her words carefully. And maybe she is. "If Clark wasn't so worried about this meeting--"

He just might notice something. In no universe does Clark Kent pass for a complete idiot, and this one comes across as a control freak of the first order. Too much time together, Clark's going to notice something's wrong. Lex can be a lot of things, but he's not sure he's ever going to crawl into a bed willingly with Clark again, and there's no way to play that down.

"Why is he worried?" Even to himself, his voice sounds bitter. Is this Lex ever bitter? Or is he too drunk and too fucked out to do anything but just go with it?

She shrugs. "The first tests weren't--good. Even with all the advances, we're years away from understanding what it is Clark wants us to do. Cloning an alien race isn't easy, and Clark's the only template we have. Especially with all the changes he wants." Leaning into the door, Lois stares out, like she's imagining something or someplace entirely different. "I keep thinking--it's so stupid...." She breaks off with an embarrassed laugh, mouth shutting tight.

"What?"

"It's just been a long month." Lois closes her eyes. "I was thinking of asking if I could go home for a little while."

Home. She put meaning in it, power, a yearning so strong even Lex could feel it. "Out of Metropolis?"

"Just for a little while. Maybe see Lucy." Her eyes turn down. "Just--away." Anywhere, she seems to imply. Home isn't a place, not really; it's a state of mind. And Metropolis would never be home to her, not to this Lois. "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had got away?"

Lex shuts his eyes tight. Got away. 

"I was going to win a Pulitzer. Marry a man I loved. Grow old. Maybe have kids. I keep thinking about that recently, and--I just wonder sometimes, if we hadn't stopped for the night, if we'd just kept driving--" She laughs, like she's embarrassed. "But the world turned and times changed, didn't they?"

"If we hadn't stopped--" It'd been a truck stop, so close to the Canadian border. They'd been exhausted, and he'd run off the road three times. Chasing rumor of places there, with Kryptonite and lead. Places to live, to survive. Before--before-- "If we hadn't stopped--"

"He would have found us anyway," Lois whispers, and all the light goes out. "No matter where we went. You knew that. So did I. But it felt free for a little while, didn't it?"

Lex swallows hard. This isn't real, this isn't his world, and this isn't him, with this woman, in this place. It's just until he finds what he needs, and then he's gone, and this isn't real, it can't be real--

No more real than the blood on his tongue and his pants, the feeling of Clark inside him, and Lois' pain, the memories that aren't his and keep trying to be. They want to remember Lois with a gun in her hand, because she'd do anything not to go back. And Lex had pulled it from her and that had been--

"I'm sorry." He--the other he, the other Lex, who drinks too much and lives like this--hadn't been willing to let her go, any more than he'd been able to get away from Clark, not get away and mean it. He'd pried it from her hands and went home when Clark said to, took her back when she would have killed or died to be free. He'd broken her, not Clark. 

It's not *him*. It's this Lex, not him. It's--

"I'm not hungry," Lex says as the driver slows, not quite able to face Lois, not knowing this. He wonders if his counterpart ever feels the same. "Just drive."

*****

Lex has no idea why he and Lois are here--it's a bunch of scientists, corporate suits, and a few people Lex assumes are public figures of some kind. It could be the President of the United States for all Lex knows or cares. If there's even one here.

He's not getting over the view of the desperately clean, desperately empty streets of Metropolis anytime soon.

Luckily, he's not expected to do much, another jarring moment that he can let pass because Lois is still as a statue beside him, and Lois has never been still, not since he met her. Bruised in places that show in her eyes every time she looks at him.

They all talk above his head, and it sinks in, slowly, that while he's CEO of LexCorp, he's not actually expected to act like one. Gabe gives the answers, asks the questions, not even a glance to see what Lex thinks. If Lex thinks at all. If they even think--

Christ, what *is* he to these people? Clark's fucktoy? Lex isn't

It's all genetics, experiments, failures, successes, success rates and quotes, the kind of science that Lex lives and breathes, but somehow, he keeps it off his face, just listening. Playing with the glass--he doesn't seem to be the only one in need of alcoholic courage, with the sheer number of glasses and bottles on the table. The only face he recognizes is Gabe, but a Gabe who lives in a kind of daily terror that's numbed him down to just going through the motions. Maybe praying it's enough, that he gets out of here okay. Clark going into a rage and killing everyone doesn't seem as unfamiliar a concept as it should be.

Another part of the other-Lex getting through. Lex reaches for the bottle and pours another glass, imagines sinking a knife into the man smirking at him across the table, like nothing else but this could be expected from Lex Luthor. 

Lionel, Lex thinks a little distantly, would have razed his life into the ground, just for that smirk. This Lex Luthor, however, skimming just below his own thoughts, already has the man in one of those Kryptonite labs, and that Lex makes him smile across the table, slow and thoughtful. There are, Lex thinks, feeling nausea rise slow and sweet, a lot of things far worse than death. All of them were in those files in his office. Lex watches the man's eyes widen, turning quickly back to conference, to Clark, watching everyone with unconcealed boredom, waiting for them to tell him what he wanted to hear.

"That's all you have?" Clark snaps, bringing Lex back into the present, echoed by Lois' kick at his ankle. So. Something's happening. "Two years. You told me two years."

One of the scientists looks like he's seeing his own death in progress right in front of him. "The complexities of the genome--"

"You *said* you could do it!" Like an angry kid, denied a coveted toy, in the invulnerable body of a super strong man. Lex has nightmares that go like this, but they usually involve his father and a few hallucinogenics to really up the terror factor.

"We can!" The terrified desperation reminds Lex of a rabbit in front of a wolf. "We can, we will, we just need more time--"

"You've had plenty of time." Clark leans forward, pure menace, and Lex knows, like he knows his own name, that this man is dead and buried in Clark's mind already. And there's a good chance this entire room will have to watch it.

"Do it yourself."

Lex hears himself drawl out the words without a real idea why. This man's life means nothing to him. But it's there--maybe the feeling of Lionel in Clark that brings up every stupid adolescent and adult rebellion, before he learned less direct ways to retaliate. 

The deathly silence is kind of fun, in that way that anything is fun when you realize you are just as crazy as you've always suspected. Lex can feel Lois' stillness beside him, her disbelief.

"What did you just say?" Defected rage with a new target, all focused on Lex. But Lionel could do it better than Clark--he could call on a childhood of emotional manipulation and an entire arsenal of emotional weapons, not just this physical threat. Cheap, tawdry, rough, not subtle, not at all what Lex is used to. Clark can kill him to shut him up, but that's all he can do. 

"You think it can be done faster? Do it yourself." Leaning back in his chair, Lex grins over the rim of his glass. Everyone's watching him in fascination. Lex supposes someone committing suicide right in front of them is pretty damn interesting.

Clark looks like he can't believe the words coming out of Lex's mouth. It's just like meeting with Dad. What do they say about picking out a lover who reminds you of your father? Until now, Lex had thought it only applied to women. 

"Everyone. Get out."

They leave. Like rats off a sinking ship, they don't run, but only because they don't want to be noticed. Lois doesn't move--either she thinks the order doesn't apply to her, or she's too shocked by Lex being an idiot to get up.

Slowly, making a show of it, like Lex needs it, Clark circles the table. One second, sitting with his glass, watching--the next, up against the wall, a strong hand wrapped around his throat.

It's all so fucking--*stupid*. He'd laugh if there was enough air.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Clark whispers, hot breath against his cheek. "You think you have any clue what's going on? What we're trying to achieve?"

"You're going to kill him." Lois' voice is strong, just out of sight. He's going to black out soon. "Clark. Even he can't heal a crushed throat. And you don't want him dead."

For a second, Lex is almost sure Clark's going to test that. The steel fingers tighten, then loosen by degrees. Not enough to get a full breath, but enough so the possibility of strangulation becomes more unlikely. Passing out, however, is not.

"You little fucker." Like that, Clark drops him, going back to fall into a chair, arms crossed over his chest. When Jonathan used to lecture him, Clark would do just that, Lex remembers. With just that look on his face.

This Lex is *afraid* of this man. And has good reason. Rubbing his throat, he sees Lois take an aborted step toward him, then stop when he looks at her. In the name of God, don't get his attention.

"You." Clark gives Lois a slow once-over. The Clark in his world loved her to distraction. He never--he would *never*-- "Looking for a little visit to the penthouse?"

Lois stiffens, but her eyes stay fixed on the floor. "If that's what you want." Lex doesn't like the look on her face--he's not doing this Lois any favors, acting like this. She's not a superhealing mutant. She'll end up dead if Clark gets bored and decides to kill her.

Using the wall, Lex makes himself stand up. Residual swelling could still cut off his airway, but he doubts the damage will last long enough to come to that. Leaning back, he takes a slow breath, feeling Clark's eyes on him again. The speculative look isn't comforting, but then, this Clark's anything and everything but comforting.

"We're going home," he says, standing up and kicking the chair. Lex watches it hit the far wall and crack. Reminder that even a casual Clark is a danger to everyone around him. He understands. "You too, Lois. We should all have a nice little talk, don't you think?" His eyes slide up and down her again, and Lex wonders how she can stand there and take it, not even twitch. "It's been a while since you visited."

*****

Lois beats him to the brandy, while Clark leaves after a phone call that sends him out the door. He did stop to talk to security, which Lex thinks--and maybe he's reaching here--means that he and Lois can consider themselves under house arrest.

Lois unpockets her phone as she hands Lex a glass, not looking at him as she raises hers to her mouth and takes a long drink. The Lois he knew couldn't stand brandy. A complicated number is punched into the phone, then Lois sits down, frowning into the floor. A few long seconds pass, then she sighs, looking at her phone briefly before turning it off.

"Bad news?" Lex refills her empty glass. It looks like both he and Lois are becoming too close to the brandy bottle. Or have been for a long time. Too long, if she can drink like that, not even a wince when it goes down burning.

"Just Chloe, leaving a message to remind me how great her life is." The pretty mouth twists hard, a smile that twists her eyes as well. "How *The Planet* can't live without her and all of that." Lois tosses the phone onto the couch before taking another drink. "She's probably right. They live and breathe on her word. Being friends with the most powerful man in the world does have that effect."

That doesn't match the Chloe that Lex remembers at all. "She--" Chloe was all about the truth and all kinds of other idealistic nonsense. But he can't ask questions for answers he should already know. "I suppose that helps."

Lois grunts something that sounds like agreement, downing the rest of the brandy. She seems to debate before extending it. "More."

Lex looks at the decanter. "You sure--"

"I want to be so far from sober I won't care what he wants me to do." The stark pain is what moves him across the room, filling the glass with a hand that shakes. "You know."

Apparently, from the amount of alcohol he's already consumed today, he'd have to agree. This is how the other Lex gets through the day. Enough alcohol so even his metabolism can't keep up. It's kind of funny, in that way that he'll never be able to laugh about. "You could leave."

"And have him send you to fetch me back again?" On her feet and moving, those fast, graceful movements, that familiar smirk--*Lois*. "Where would I go? Everyone knows my face. Everyone knows what I--" She stops, drowning the words on her tongue with another drink. "When I leave, it'll be the last time, and then where would you be?"

"I can handle it."

"Yeah, you're doing a great job." Another drink. She wasn't going for a metaphor--she wants to be drunk. Before Clark gets back. So she won't care. Christ. "I--I understand, you know." Her step's a little unsteady as the alcohol hits her. "I mean." She sits down, and Lex watches her head fall back on the back of the couch. "It's been a long time, Lex. I--I don't--I get why you came back. Why you made us come back."

Jesus and God. No. "Lois--"

"I get it. It took a while, but--no one should be alone. Not--and it's hard. To want to leave. He--you know, when we met, he made me feel--sophisticated. So much older, so much wiser. I was so damn young, I didn't know--" She stops. "It's hard to leave, when I can see that in him still."

"He's not the same person." God, she wouldn't believe him if he told her just how different he is. 

"Sometimes--it's so stupid." She stares up at the ceiling, and Lex's chest tightens at the smile on her face, so young. God, so fucking *young*, nineteen and brilliant and everything in the world in her eyes, but that was a thousand years ago here "He can be--and you. Both of you." Her smile fades. "I know why you couldn't really leave him then. I don't think I can now."

"You could."

Her head turns, slow as honey. "I don't know what I am without him anymore."

Lois never defined herself by anyone else. Lois was Lois was Lois, and this--this-- "You could get away. I--" God save him from stupidity, but he's in the right mood for it. The right universe. "I'll help you."

And God, the way she looks at him. He's never made a promise he didn't break. She knows that. "I still love you, Lex."

Christ. "Lois--"

"I hated you for years, but that never changed." There are tears in her eyes, and she stands up, unsteady, grabbing for the arm of the couch. Staring at him. "I love him, too. And I--" She stumbles, and Lex drops his glass, catching her before she can hit the floor. Too thin, too light, too-big eyes. "I wish you'd let me pull the trigger, Lex."

Lex sinks onto the floor, feeling her face against his chest. "I wish I had, too."

*****

He's Lex fucking Luthor. Genius, brilliant businessman, ruthless, powerful--and doing nothing. Watching her sleep, in the neatly made bed he'd woken up in this morning. 

Clark still hasn't come home, and Lex can't find it in himself to be anything but utterly relieved.

Supervillian.

He remembers the first time the Justice League had called him that, laughing himself sick, because it was Clark's voice he could hear saying it. Clark, who drew his life in blacks and whites, like this, with him on one side and Lex on the other, an inseparable gulf between.

This, he thinks, is something that Clark would be able to label, so easily drawn blacks and whites. Clark would have--well, what would Clark have done, faced with a him like this? The Clark he'd met, that he'd watched grow up, that had been friend and enemy, reluctant ally and sometimes fantasy, couldn't have become this. Where, how, why, what the *fuck*--it was Jor-El's son, not Jonathan and Martha Kent's, except all those damn--all those little things that were Smallville Clark through and through.

Whatever had gone wrong here with Clark--and God knew, the list of possibilities was enormous--it had been astronomically bad. 

"You went to bed early," comes the voice, and Lex stiffens without even thinking, rolling over to look at Clark. Jacket and shoes discarded, shirt unbuttoned, so fucking hot, even now, in this time, in this place. Sitting on the edge of the bed, a big hand lands on Lex's hip, caressing gently. "Tired?"

And like that, Smallville Clark all over again, sweet smile and messy hair. So gentle. Almost playful when he pushes Lex over, curling up beside him, big body warm against him. They'd never been this--but Lex had wanted it like he'd wanted few things in life before or since. 

"I'm not mad," Clark says against his mouth, hand cupping his head, deceptively gentle. "Not anymore. You're having a bad day, right? That's why you acted like that."

That's why-- "Yeah," Lex whispers back. "Very bad."

Clark kisses him, playful and still sweet, almost chaste--a sixteen year old boy might have kissed like that. Clark draws back, still grinning--then the green eyes darken as they look over his shoulder and Lex knows the second Clark sees Lois, feels it in the hand tightening on his head. "What's she doing here?"

Mistake. If she'd been conscious, or he'd been thinking, he would have known that, she would have known that. He would have thought and left her on the couch, or found one of the other beds to put her in. Before Clark can move, Lex twists, rolling on top of him.

"She's waiting for you." Kissing Clark hard, getting teeth this time, the soft mood apparently ending. Clark's arms go around him, just a little too tight, like he needs the reminder that he's with someone who can rip him apart without a thought.

"I don't like her in my bed." A pause, an unspoken two words. Lex wonders how on earth he'd gotten Clark's obsession like this. If it was there when they were both kids, because God, would he have wanted to know about this. He kisses Clark again, imaging the boy he met, shy eyes and shy smile, the one who lived and died for his friends. Lex didn't understand it, but he'd never stopped respecting it.

Clark.

"I thought you wanted her," Lex murmurs against Clark's throat. Clark's arms loosen by degrees, giving Lex some flexibility in movement. "You know I want--that I--" That I love you. That this Lex probably does, and that woman does, too, because we've broken her and made her believe there's nothing else for her. And maybe there's not, not anymore.

Straddling Clark's waist, Lex sits up, looking down. Clark doesn't look angry anymore. Runs his knuckles over the bulge in the pants, just to see Clark hiss softly, one hand closing around his wrist. 

"She tried to leave," Clark says softly, but his eyes are glazing as Lex pulls down the zipper, snapping the hooks on the pants open one handed. "You did, too. She helped you."

"But we haven't since." Some particularly virulent form of Stockholm Syndrome, maybe. The sickest kind. Or Lex's monumentally fucked up definition of love. Somehow, right now, nothing seems hotter than this, than the way Clark looks at him.

The hand on his wrist cuts off circulation, and Lex feels the bone begin to creak. "If you break my wrist, it's going to cut the night short."

Clark has to think about it--for a second, Lex thinks he can actually feel his bones giving, the white hot pain blinding, traveling toward a blackout like the darker edge of orgasm, but Clark finally loosens. 

"You brought her for me." Clark's head tilts on the pillow, watching Lex through narrowed eyes. 

"For you. Like the first time. Because you wanted her." Like a truck stop in Canada in a life he didn't live, just remembers. She lived because Lex couldn't live without her. Because Clark wanted her so badly. Because Lex is Lex, and the instinct to give Clark whatever he wants is still so strong. So much that even a bone bruised wrist doesn't stop him from leaning down for another kiss. "Just for you."  
   
Clark growls something into his mouth, rolling him onto his back, pushing between his legs, cock rubbing against the wool of Lex's pants, and he's so hard beneath, he wants it *off*.

This is--other Lex in him. That sad bastard who drinks away his guilt and lives with being nothing but Clark's toy, it has to be. Other Lex that makes him whimper and twist and arch into each touch, shudder when Clark leaves the bloody marks of his teeth in his side, around his nipple, on his collar. Too-hard touches, establishing a possession that Lex never would have thought he'd want to claim.

Sitting back on his knees now to look at Lex, panting beneath him, with a bright smile and the clearest, most beautiful eyes in the world.

"Fuck her," Clark tells him, rubbing Lex's cock with one hand, distracting circles that make everything sound like holy writ, the best idea in creation. "Fuck her while I watch."

Lex turns his head, and Lois' open eyes stare back at him. 

"*You don't have to do this, Lex.*"

But this isn't that Lois, who would have rather died. She stretches like a cat, eyes closing, going someplace else entirely when he kisses her. She tastes like brandy and old pain, the kind that never stops hurting, never scabs, never heals. Long fingers push his pants away, long legs wrap around his waist, and he's inside her before he even knows he's going to do it.

"Lex," she whispers, arching her back, and Lex chokes back the apology he wants to make.

He tells himself he would have stopped if she'd said no. 

"Yes," Clark says, voice thick, stretching out beside them. Watching his face, watching *hers*. "Like that."

The silk of her skirt rubs against his hips with each thrust, and her shirt comes open at a touch. Clark kisses her, making her contract tight around him, blindingly good, her nails cutting into Lex's shoulder. Clark moves, still watching them like he's watching porn, like he paid for the show, hand casual on his own cock.

Lex doesn't know how long he can stand this, bracing himself on one arm over her, watching her face tighten and relax. Still drunk enough to lose herself in the moment, maybe forgetting, and sex is good for that, the best for that, and he can make her forget everything else. Touch her like he touched Lois in his own world, knowing all the tricks that made her hot, made her smile, made her gasp, and made her come.

"Oh." The hand on his ass drags him back--probably the entire point. Clark grins at him, nipping his shoulder before he's out of sight, but that hand stays, one finger working into his ass. "Clark."

"Just keep going." Clark's voice is rough in his ear, and a second finger pushes inside. Lex is caught between them--Lois' wet heat, Clark's big, agile fingers. Slick and fast, touching on that place that makes the world go dark Oh God. 

"Oh *God*. Clark."

Clark eases in him this time--so different from the office, matching his rhythm with Lois, and it falls together so naturally Lex knows this has happened before. Lois' legs move to the bed, feet braced on the mattress, eyes closing, giving up to the purely physical. Clark's inside him so deeply he can't remember living any other way. "Clark. God."

"Yeah," Clark whispers, licking the back of his neck, under his ear, one arm going around his waist. "Just like that. Fuck, you feel good."

It seems to go on forever. Wet heat and hard fullness, one or the other, and he's trapped in sensation that never seems to end. Lois moans under him, almost shaking, so close to coming but never quite. So fucking close--just beyond reach, he can *feel* it. Clark murmurs into his skin, breath hot and becoming desperate, fucking into him harder, pushing him into Lois.

"Come," Clark whispers, and their bodies just *obey*. 

Lois convulses, making a sound he's never heard anyone make, and the sudden tightness pushes him over, seeing stars and planets and galaxies all around him, feeling Clark still moving in him, pushing him farther. Lois hands are on his chest, but it's Clark, Clark whispering into his skin and thrusting hard enough for Lex to feel something tear, but he can't find it in himself to care, not when Clark stiffens, teeth in his shoulder, coming inside him.

They collapse in a tangled pile, and Lex feels Lois' tears on his neck and wonders what it means when you felt like this with someone like this. This good, this hot, this fucking *young*, like he hasn't been in decades. 

Clark moves them, sliding down and pulling Lex against him, softening cock still in his ass, soothing hands on his skin. Lex doesn't hear what he says.

He's not sure it even matters.

*****

He's in LexCorp's offices before dawn--and the looks from security are enough to amuse the shit out of him, like they're seeing a hallucination of epic proportions. Clark had vanished sometime between exhausted slumber and the moment Lex woke up. Lois, too.

Lex can only hope she left alone, and in one piece.

Keying in his codes, Lex ignores his office, all the pretty trappings of power that don't mean anything here. He needs the core databases in the sublevels, and he suspects this Lex doesn't give a good shit about those, probably doesn't have access from that shiny office. If anyone would know anything about this, it would be in the computers here.

Or hell, if it comes to it, he'll hit google and start checking out the conspiracy theorists. It can't be any more insane than what he's lived through.

You're sure there's something here, Lex had asked the AI while it hooked him in. You're sure that I can find it?

I'm sure, it had said. What you need to know, what it takes to defeat it, will be where it was faced and defeated. Lex supposes an immoral Clark with a lot of time on his hands and a world at his feet could do a lot of things that even Lex and Superman and a world of superheroes combined couldn't figure out.

It's a little lowering, but not as lowering as the fact Lex can't make himself sit down and face the white pain that announces even superhealers need to take breaks. Jesus. No wonder he gets up late.

It's here. Somewhere. Record after record, keyword after keyword. Kryptonite is useless. Conventional weapons, various lasers, multiphase conductors, electricity, nuclear energy, plasmic energy--all tried, failed in a line of states up the center of the United States, leaving a trail of death that ended, at least temporarily, in Virginia. It'll be back, because they left room for a sequel, The Thing II, and this time, Lex wants to be ready.

"Shit."

"You're looking for something."

Lex doesn't look up. "Still following me?"

She doesn't answer, a quiet, pained presence in the doorway.

"What are you looking for? It's not like you can kill him. Or that you want to." Her voice is too soft to draw blood, just bruise. The other-Lex agrees. We wouldn't do that. We're not sure what we are without him. If we're anything at all.

Lex grits his teeth. No. No. "Believe it or not, I'm looking for something else. So if you'll--" If you'll leave. Guilt's is just as distracting as he'd always suspected it could be. Clark--his Clark--did guilt like a high school trend.

"Why?"

Lex's back hates leaning over like this--not to mention the vulnerability it implies. "This. A thing. That happened. I don't know what it was called, but it was a regenerating machine. Kryptonian origin. Resistant to Kryptonite." How much longer until the AI called him back? Two days in relative time. That gives him through today. Lex tries to imagine another twenty-four hours and shudders. Two days is too long. Way, way too fucking long. Or not long enough. "Christ. It happened, I know it did."

"Lex?" The door shuts with a soft click, and Lex lets himself look up. She's moving stiffly, but it doesn't look like any major injuries occurred. Clark must be in a good mood.

He usually is after nights like that, other-Lex's thoughts offer, bitterly amused. He's probably at the labs. Showing them incentives to being smarter.

"How the hell do you live like this?" It comes out before Lex can check it at his tongue--the question aimed at the other Lex, who just rolls over for all this. Lex can't imagine being a man who could do that, be this, to live wrapped up in a cloud of alcohol and helplessness. Of all the things he could be, could have been, this doesn't even come close.

"Who are you?"

Fuck. "Don't be any more crazy than usual." And that sounds like both of them, taking the battle to another field, distracting from the original question. "Go--do something."

She's close enough to breathe--a fresh shower and clean clothes, scraping herself clean of Clark and him. Close enough to touch, if he so much as moves. "You're different." When he looks up, the dark eyes widen, pupils swallowing the irises. "Two years ago. The last time you entered a lab. You don't remember?"

Easier if he consciously accessed this Lex, maybe--but so dangerous, even the AI hadn't recommended that, even if he was desperate. "I--killed it?"

She's staring at him. "You and Clark's pets. There wasn't anyone who could figure it out, even Clark. It hated him, somehow. It--didn't have a mind. You said--"

"That I'd be damned if I was bending over for anyone else." Yes, that sounds marginally like him. "What did I do?"

Lois's hands press into the surface of the desk. "You aren't Lex Luthor."

This is the wrong time to get curious. This is way beyond caring. Intellectually, he knows he's being stupid. "There's nothing wrong with me." And to prove it, he turns away from the wide eyes, fingers on the keyboard.

"He's going to figure it out." She isn't moving, just standing there, and he always forgets, somehow, that Lois really does have a genealogy crossed with bull terrier. It's a comfort that some things are the same, but this second isn't the moment he would have chosen to find out. "How did you get here--where are you from--"

"Really not a good time for explanations." She doesn't have any evidence. Clark won't listen to a word she says.

And like that, he's pushed back against the desk, Lois' hand buried in the collar of his shirt, and he's getting really beyond fucking tired of being hauled around like a rag doll.

Other Lex just grins. Have a brandy. You'll get used to it.

"Shut the fuck *up*." And he has no idea who he's saying that to. "Lois, back the fuck off."

She's so close he can breathe her in. "You would have thrown me into the wall before now. Tell me who you are."

Tell her, other Lex says. It's not like it makes a difference.

"One or five universes to the left," Lex grinds out. His back aches from the angle, he won't even think of his ass, and one knee is starting to bend in the wrong direction. Pushing her off, Lex watches her stumble, catching her feet from habit like a cat, or a woman used to being knocked around a lot. "And I wanted you dead there, so don't fucking push."

Strangely, she doesn't even smile. "That's how you got rid of it." Her voice cracks. "Pushed it out of our universe. I don't know where you put it, but that's how it was done."

Fuck. Lex doesn't want it just gone--he wants it *dead*. Twisted metal melting into the ground, salting the ground where it stands. Make the fall of Carthage look like amateur work. Lex closes his eyes. "I didn't destroy it."

"You didn't even know what it was." Her voice sounds hoarse. "How did you--"

"The Fortress. Another time." Lex opens his eyes. "You're going to tell him."

She doesn't bother to deny it, eyebrows going up. "I won't have a choice if he asks. But I won't volunteer the information, if that's--how long?"

"Two days. Less than a day left." Lex bites down on his lip, feeling the remains of the healing cut on his lip with his tongue. "He's not going to figure it out."

Lois shakes her head. "You--really aren't from around here. He'll--Jesus. Where are you from?" The curiosity is unmistakable. "Not like here."

"Not like here, no."

"He's going to know."

Lex pushes himself straighter. His father would be horrified by his son slumping like a common laborer after a hard day's manual work. "How? If you don't tell him--"

"He knows you. He *made* you."

Lex stiffens. "I only need to get through--"

"After yesterday--he's not stupid. He--" Lois' eyes go blank for a minute. "He knows something is wrong. And he's going to find out, because he can. He's--"

Not stupid, not dense, not short-sighted, not any of the things that he's always accused Clark of and never really believed. This Clark is honed and suspicious and Lex thinks, just maybe, that Lois might be right. "Lois, stop."

"You never come here anymore," she says, and Lex still can't wrap his mind around it. "He--he wants to own everything, you know that. He can't stand not knowing why. You won't want to tell him, but you will, you'll tell him because you have to. And then because you want to, because you can't imagine not wanting to be whatever he wants you to be."

Lois, other-Lex murmurs, knows. And you're me, and soon I'll be you, and it won't matter anymore.

The more time spent around Clark, Lex thinks, that will probably be true. "I need my laptop." A laptop, if not his. In this place, he seems to lack a certain work ethic. "Lois--"

"What do you think you're going to do?" She looks scared. "He'll come for us and he'll push and he'll ask, and if you can't be, if you aren't what he expects, what he made--he'll want to know why. And he'll figure out why. He worked those equations, he knows people can move between dimensions."

"He won't figure it out."

"You're crazy."

For years and years and years. "I'm getting out." He's Lex Fucking Luthor, in any time, in any place. "Less than twenty-four hours." That's too long, Lex feels it in his bones. Far, far too long.

"You think you can get out of the city without him knowing?"

When she puts it that way, no, he doesn't. "Where is he?"

"With the geneticists. He'll be there all day. But he'll come looking. People will see you leave. And they'll tell him where."

"Not if they aren't alive to tell." Lex can kill in cold blood. He doesn't like it, but that doesn't mean he can't do it if he has to. Just one fucking day. "If I--if this Lex ran, where would Clark think he'd go?"

Lois shakes her head. "He'd never believe it." Her head tilts, and Lex watches her eyes come alive. That had never meant good things, not in his world, and he can't think it's any better in this one. "If you run, he'll find me, and I'll tell, Lex, whether I want to or not." The look suggests that she won't want to, and that Clark will have to be very creative. This Clark, Lex thinks, seems like a very creative alien. The dark eyes light up. "He won't believe it, that you're running alone. But he'll believe it if I go."

Oh Jesus. "I don't want you dead." Mostly. Give or take a few bad exposes. "I can do this alone."

"You really can't. He'll--if he thinks we went together, he thinks we'll make for a border country. South America, maybe. It'll take even him a while to search the entire border for us." Buy time, she doesn't say. And we'll need every second.

Lex stares at her. "He--I'm *leaving*. The man who will be left in this body--"

"I'll take care of Lex," she says, slowly. "And I can take care of myself." Not noticeably, Lex thinks, but other-Lex only laughs. She's survived Clark for over a decade. Her instincts are a hundred times better than yours ever could be. "You--is it better? Where you are?" For a second, her eyes fill with something impossibly huge and hopeful.

Lex thinks of all the ways that it isn't--the devastation, the riots, the bodies, the living monster that will kill them all, for no better reason than that it can. He thinks of Clark's slow death, the bullets he put in people's heads, the deaths reported on the news. He thinks of Lois' body, and Clark's silent, terrible grief, hidden behind closed doors and badly-fitted glasses.

"You won a Pulitzer. You married a man you loved." He stops, throat closing on the words. "You had a life, and you were never afraid of anything." 

Lois nods. "If we leave now, I know where we can go."

*****

"At the Planet?"

"Yeah." She drives, because he can't figure out how the hell this car *works*. Kryptonian technology, maybe, but Lex can't risk even trying to access any of other Lex to find out. Other Lex bleeds through all on his own quite nicely, so inviting more of him just seems like a bad idea.

Lois grins, fast and sharp, and Lex glimpses a reporter, immaculate suit and high heels, following him around with brayed questions. Lois, bulldog and implacable enemy, the kind you get to have once in a lifetime. Twice, if he counts Clark. But only if you're lucky.

It occurs to Lex that he's been luckier in his enemies than he ever was in his friends or lovers.

"Was I good?" She seems a little freer with every mile. Lex doesn't think of the way she fired her gun at the first security checkpoint. The body hadn't even had a chance to hit the ground before they were moving again. She took him very literally. No one is going to live to tell that they left the city.

He wants to ask why she even has a gun, but he doesn't. 

"Amazing." And that's true enough. "I really, really hated you."

Her eyes dart sideways, almost laughing. "I was that good?"

"You were that good." And you had Clark, at least for a little while, and it wasn't the fucking that got to me. It was what you were to him, even after. Lex leans his head into the headrest of the little Ferrari. "Is this my car?"

"You almost never drive them anymore." How depressing. "You ran off the road one too many times, and Clark started to suspect passive aggressive deliberation." She shrugs, foot sinking deeper onto the gas. "In your world? You're that bad?"

Well, he'd thought so. But there are places here that even he hadn't ever thought to go. "Relatively speaking, I'm looking pretty good in comparison." In a fair universe, he'd be able to explain that to Clark. Time can be relative, and so can evil. Or whatever the hell Clark thinks he is. "But. I have an entire Justice League watching out for me." It's a nostalgic thought--what Lex wouldn't give to see Bruce looking at him with blank disapproval. "Can you tell me--Bruce Wayne--"

Lois' blank look says it all. If Bruce had been here, Clark had recognized real competition when he saw it in obsessive flesh and blood. "I--don't know. I could look it up when we get--"

"No." It's better not to know. Rubbing his eyes idly, Lex watches the landscape pass by. "He won't look in Smallville first?"

"He hates Smallville." Lois voice is flat. "So do you, for that matter. So no, he's not going to think that you'd go there." Her eyes are shadowed. "He won't believe you don't want to be caught."

"Right." Lex looks down at his wrapped wrist, the bruising underneath fading green already. "How did--do you know--" But how does anyone know? In some other universe, Lex Luthor might have been a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. There's so much, and so little, that makes the difference between the man you are and the man you could have been. A fine line you can step over at any time. Whatever line Clark had crossed, Lex had crossed, too. And he's not sure he ever wants to know what pushed him over. Or how. "Never mind."

Lois' eyes are fixed on the road. "When I met him, he wasn't like that."

Lex wishes he'd shut his mouth before the question could be asked. His mind's creating timelines, trying to mark the places.

"But it was in him."

"It's in everyone," Lex murmurs. "Just sometimes, there's something to stop it--"

"Or someone. It's not just one thing," Lois says, and Lex sees her mouth thin, a tight white line. "We'll go the castle. It's been condemned for years."

That's probably the most cheering news that Lex has heard since he came here. "Really?"

Lois smirks. "Hate it there, too?"

"Beyond the language to adequately describe." God knows the number of times he's been tempted to send a team out there to raze it to the ground. Burn every overpriced antique, extravagant rug, and pretentious painting. Only Lionel Luthor would have-- "My father--" God, what the hell?

"He's comfortable." Lois' eyes fix on the road, but her hands are tight on the wheel. "Last time, he almost recognized you."

No. No. And no. "How much farther?" Anything but this. Anything.

"Forty-five minutes." Her foot presses down harder, and Lex watches the car slide into two hundred miles an hour. This must be what freedom feels like for her. "Make that thirty."

*****

It's dark, and cold, and bare of anything like furniture, and Lex thinks it's an improvement. It always felt like a tomb--now it looks more like one. Lex can't stand false advertising. 

Lois looks around like she's never been here before. Maybe she hasn't been. He's not exactly inclined to ask. "When will he notice we're gone?"

"When he gets bored enough to want us around." Lois picks her way through cobwebs and broken stone floor, forehead creasing. "At least another hour or two. He really wants to make an impression on the lab techs."

Lex nods, looking around the billiards room with a sense of disbelief. There are no memories here, not from any time. Like those games with Clark never existed. Ask, his mind says. Find out more. Look inside and get the answers.

Lex clings to the memory of the pool table, the rich rugs, the stain glass window in his office, the painted ceilings, now nothing but peeling plaster and falling stone. Sunlight spills in from the poor repair. It would be a very, very special kind of irony to suddenly be killed by falling rock. Would he go back to where he came from, or would he die?

It's not something he wants to think about too hard.

"You lived here?" Lois asks, sounding a little disbelieving, and a little out of breath. "I mean, intellectually, I know that, but--"

"It's a fucking tomb. I know, trust me." The halls are marginally better, structure-wise, probably more due to good engineering than anything else. Upstairs would be a death trap, but Lex still feels this insane desire to look around. "Why don't I just have it razed?" It's the same question he could ask himself in his own world, and the answer's muddled, caught in the grey spaces of his mind.

Lois is a little ahead. "Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. We can't just sit around on bare rock--"

"It's surrounded by Kryptonite." Years of exposure made Lex sensitive to it--not like Superman, but a feeling, a tickle of some kind. It works on his nerves like an itch. "If I know me, and I do, I didn't throw everything out." At least he hoped. It might say a lot about both of them that being caught was becoming less worrisome than sitting around without furniture. "Storage here somewhere."

"You think?" She doesn't sound too certain. Neither is he.

"Not really, no, but--" Lex pushes a rotting doorway open, checking the footing, before motioning her forward. The huge kitchen was spread out before them, trapped forever in the early 00's, modern steel cut with stone and hideous, and expensive, tile. "Let's--have a seat. This is as good a place as any." A dusty table still takes up space by the granite counters. Lex watches Lois gingerly sit down, remembering belatedly that her night hadn't been any easier than his. "Are you--"

"I'm fine." She's pale, though, and Lex can see the way her hands shake. Reaction to stress, or a bout of insanity. Clark might kill them both. Or keep them both alive. When he finds them. And he will.

Lex is betting on Lois being right, that they can mark time, and he'll be out, leaving her and other-Lex here to face whatever comes after. And God, does he not want to think of after.

"Lois--" He's not sure what to say. He can't apologize, because he's not sorry. He can't be. He can't tell her that he can help her, because the man that lives in this skin can't even help himself. The curl of his body stops the word before she looks up.

"Just tired." Looking away, she closes her eyes, leaning down on the table. "It's--it's okay. I just need to rest."

Lex nods. He can give her that, at least.

*****

Smallville nights are as endless as Smallville days. And Clark can see in the dark just as well as he can in light--darkness doesn't guarantee safety, but it feels like it does.

And Lois is sleeping like the dead, awkward position and all. Lex thinks she might not have slept much last night. The idea that she doesn't sleep when she's in Clark's bed if she can help it crawls the edges of his mind, but he dismisses it. There's nothing he can do.

The wine cellar still exists, and Lex marvels at the fact that his counterpart stripped the furniture but left the alcohol to slowly rot. 

The castle's an abandoned ghost--from what little Lex saw of the road to Smallville, the country isn't much better. Darkened, barren fields--too many years of Kryptonite, slowly poisoning the land, creeping inch by inch through the soil. Another world, his world, they'd taken steps to prevent it, contain it, destroy it. Here--Lex stops at a window, staring out into the dark, the treeless, grassless ground No one had stopped it.

Glass sprinkles the floor where windows caved; even the stained glass in his office is falling apart, bright slivers of blood red and autumn gold littering the floor. No desk, but the sagging bookshelves still line the walls, a few books forgotten, or hell, maybe the guy had picked up a serious hate for Nietzsche and Catullus.

If he closes his eyes, he can remember, though. Clark at fifteen and sixteen and seventeen in here, standing before his desk like the least supplicating supplicant in history. A man who changed his future, like a tornado and an island and a tiny padded cell.

This is marking time, and the AI said two days, but he woke up in this body, so God alone knows what time that means. It could mean in the next fifteen minutes. It could be six am, when he woke up that first morning. It could be anything in between.

"Do you remember when we met?"

Lex keeps his eyes closed. "I wonder if you do."

Clark laughs, and it's fifteen all over again. Jesus. He wonders what the other Lex hears when he listens to that voice, if this is the reason he can't make himself leave. "You used to say it was the most fucked up way to meet ever."

It's strange; he can feel Clark this time, even with silent movement, too fast--he's ready for that big hand to brush his shoulder, ready to control the instinctive need to recoil, and bites his lip against the bright slash of pain. Someone normal would have screamed when their collarbone broke. 

Lex has been everything and anything but normal.

"Does it work?" Lex asks, tasting blood when he bites through his lip. "You just beat the shit out of people and they do what you want?"

"It's pretty effective." The hand moves, and Lex forces himself not to touch himself, check the damage. He knows the damage. And he knows he'll heal from it, like he heals from everything else. 

"When I was fifteen, I used to get into fights." Lex thinks he can almost hear Clark behind him. "When you were fifteen, you tried to stop them. What changed?"

"Everything changes." It's a breath across his scalp. "You told me that yourself."

Slowly, Lex turns around. Clark is Clark, this Clark, too-glossy and too-perfect, this ruthlessly powerful man who'd learned to like power and the ways he could wield it. Lex thinks of all the ways he'd thought Superman could fall from grace and how wrong he was. The Clark he knew could never have become this thing, pacing across the floor with soundless feet, a living, breathing predator.

This thing, who touches him with deceptively gentle fingers, brushing across the line of his jaw, the bruises on his throat, marking out the places he owns on Lex's body, like it's his right, his property.

"Someone's going to kill you someday." Lex says, and the hand freezes, dangerously close to his throat. Bar none, this is the stupidest he's ever been. "I want to be the one that does it."

And Clark laughs.

A lunge, that sends searing heat through Lex's body, broken bones grinding into living muscle and flesh, a brutal kiss, before Clark pulls back, arms around Lex's waist, looking into his eyes.

"You can try. Right now."

The pain recedes, a surprise--but it's not just pain. Everything seems to be pulling back, like he's being steadily jerked down an endless tunnel. He has no idea what it felt like when the AI threw him in here, but this sure as hell better be the way he leaves, because otherwise, it's very probable he's going to die.

"Where did all this come from?" Clark croons in his ear. Too close. Arms too tight. Clark might be bored, finally. "Did you and Lois think you could get away?"

Lois. Christ. "Where--"

Lex feels his ribs begin to crack under the pressure. Still here enough for Lex to want to struggle, even if his reaction time is for shit. Could be blood loss. "I thought I'd talk to her. After."

It's hard to get enough air to breathe, and if this is the AI, it's being shitty with timing it like this. The other Lex is struggling to the surface of this thoughts--a million touches like this, meetings like this. No, Clark isn't going to kill him. Clark is going to hurt him. And Lois will sit by a hospital bed again and wait for this Lex to either live or die, because this man doesn't care if he does or doesn't. Because Clark can do this, time after time, day after day, knowing Lex can heal it. 

"He saved my life," Lex whispers, surprised to hear his own voice, even more surprised by the words. Other-Lex, maybe, creeping into his body while the AI pulls Lex out. "I fell in love with him. You were just what I got when I couldn't have him."

Clark pauses, staring down with unreadable eyes. "Lex--" The last of the air. Anytime now, the fucking AI can do this.

"Someone will take you down like a dog in the street, you son of a bitch." Lex whispers, feeling blood bubble, the snap of his ribs. God dammit, do it do it do it, get me the fuck *out* of here-- "And it might not be me, but it'll be somebody, and I'll be there, too. And when you die--"

"I want you to remember me."

Clark's head jerks around, and Lex gets the blurred vision of Lois at the door, and does she really think a fucking *gun* will do it?

"You've got to be kidding me." Clark sounds like Lex feels. "What do you think you're going to do with that? Annoy me to death?"

"Was I happy, Lex?" Her eyes are fixed on Clark, and Lex thinks that no matter how much he's ever hated Superman or Clark, or Clark hated him, it's nothing to compared to this.

He can't talk, but he can nod, and Lois smiles--the too-bright, too-smart, too-fucking-annoying woman she had almost been.

"Stop *this* bullet, Clark."

Lex hears the gunshot, feels Clark jerk in surprise, and--God, the sink into his body, too fast for pain to register, or maybe that's the AI, it sure as hell better be. The fall to the floor ends with bright light and Lois' voice close to his ear.

"Thank you." Lex thinks he sees her smile.

Lex doesn't hear the second gunshot. The AI's voice drowns out everything but that light.


	3. Interlude One

"They sent it into another dimension," Lex says. His hands keep pausing at his ribs, feeling the smooth, unbroken bone beneath his skin, lingering on his collar and throat. He still tastes blood, but it's from biting through his lip when he came back, awake suddenly in the chair. The AI said it had only been an hour.

A fucking *hour*.

"That--does not assist us." The AI's pause sets Lex's teeth on edge. "We cannot send the entity into another universe to destroy--"

"Why not?" Lex knows a losing argument when he hears it. It's not like he thought that it was likely the AI would be okay with that. Somewhere, calculations are going on, studying the math that makes up a world. Lex can't quite wrap his mind around it, but the implications fascinate him. "And for kicks, can you pick somewhere a little less fucking *insane* next time?"

"How the hell can you tell that thing is there and *not* catch on to the world is run by a sociopath?" His tongue freezes on the use of Clark's name. He still wonders where the AI came down when Clark drew his line, with Jor-El on the other side. 

The computer is silent for a few long seconds. "Calculation of probabilities--"

"How?"

Another brief silence. Lex wonders if Clark had problems like this. "Your human mind cannot--"

"I'm not human." And if the AI thinks that kind of crap will fly, it's going to be a shitty night. "Don't even try that bullshit. How are you choosing?"

"The active continuation of the timeline." Lex thinks the AI might be trying. "There's a difference between a world without life and a world that still lives."

"And you can tell when this is because of it or something else--"

"No." The AI makes a low, humming sound. "But I can calculate the probability based on the information given. Fourteen point six three percent of dimensions, for instance, ended due to your direct influence."

And talk about being a bitch. Lex's eyes narrow, giving it a second to take it back, but it goes back to that low hum that he can feel shaking every nerve.

"You're kidding."

"I do not kid, Lex Luthor. Nuclear device, one point six three. Plasmic instability, two point six eight. Utilization of Kryptonite in its various incarnations, eight point three nine eight two. Genocide, nine point two one seven--"

"Genocide?" Lex's chest tightens, like his ribs are less unbroken than he thought. "I never--"

"The complete and systematic destruction of all life on the planet to the bacterial level," the AI parrots, like it's reading from the fucking dictionary. "Gaseous emissions, point seven two, viral infection, one point three eight nine two, war, six point--"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." Lex takes a deep breath. "You can tell what destroys a world?"

"In a manner, yes." 

And does he want to hear how many other ways he's ended life as he knows it? 

"The next attempt will be made in four hours," the AI says, like it's just made some kind of point. Maybe it has. "You should rest and consume--"

"Don't you fucking dare tell me what to do." If the AI was trying to make him go away, it succeeded. Turning, he walked out the door, aware only after it closed that he had no idea where the hell he was going to go.

Turning back around, he stared at the closed door for a moment, but the idea of going back in and giving the AI the satisfaction of asking for directions--and no, he didn't care he was anthropomorphizing what amounted to being a fucking *computer*....

"Shit." This isn't the same hall he used to see.

"There are private quarters on this corridor," the AI says helpfully, and Lex bites down against the urge to jump. Shit. That world had seriously screwed with him. "You may use--"

"Got it." The metal and stone corridor has the vague undertones of a hospital, or an institution. Multiple doors march in a straight line, and Lex wonders what on earth the Fortress has so many for. Clark, as far as Lex knew, never had visitors. Lois or his family, perhaps?

Lex chooses the closest door, watching in bemusement as it slides silently open. The Fortress, for some reason, reminds him of Star Trek. All it needs is little chimes to play.

The room is about what Lex would have expected, if he'd been expecting--well, bedrooms. Plain mattress on some kind of raised area against one wall. A terminal for interface with the AI. A door, presumably to a bathroom--dear God, there had better be a bathroom. Another to a closet. Lex is still relieved the AI grasped the human concept of plumbing. God only knew what Kryptonians used. Some strangely utilitarian clothes hang from the few hangers. And here he'd thought Kryptonians were all about the primary colors.

And he needs rest, no question.

"You can acquire sustenance--"

"Stop that!" Maybe he's more unnerved than he'd thought. Taking a deep breath, Lex sits on the bed, aware for the first time that his clothes are clammy. Sweat, from the smell. "I was under for an hour of real time?"

"Yes." The AI pauses. "You seemed--distressed."

"No shit." Staring at the wall, Lex tries to decide what to do. "Was he here? Often?"

The AI pauses, like there's a world of 'he's out there and can't be expected to know who on earth Lex means. "Kal-El?"

Lex nods, then wonders if the AI has visuals. He really doesn't want to know if it does. "Yeah. Did he come here often?"

"Yes." Another pause. "He said he found it quiet here."

Lex imagines he did. "Without the bustle of humanity, I suppose." Somehow, it's hard to see Clark here. Superman? No problem--the tights and over-righteous attitude, the alien, would have fit in here like a glove. But not the kid that wore flannel, not the man in the glasses. "Was he--" Was he what? At peace? Comfortable? Unhappy? There are a thousand questions that Lex wants to ask, but the only person that could ever answer them is dead. "Can you leave me alone for a while?" Though that's kind of funny, if he thinks about it. The Fortress is the AI's body, for all intents and purposes. And he's *in* it. There isn't anywhere to go from there.

"Of course." And maybe Clark had made requests like that, too, because even the subliminal buzz seems to recede. It could be his imagination, but Lex doubts it. Leaning back, Lex takes in the ungiving mattress, almost as hard as the floor, staring into the high ceiling. Clark came here for peace, for quiet, for help. He wonders, a little inanely, if it would amuse him to know Lex is doing the same thing, and for some of the same reasons.

After all, he hasn't asked the AI to update him on what's been happening on the planet. There are some things that, right now, he doesn't want to know.

*****

Sleep's impossible. Even given that he's been awake--or at least, his mind has been awake--for over twenty four hours, his body's only been up for five. Pacing the room gets boring fast. Eating takes some time, but Lex has always been a relatively fast eater when dinner doesn't involve business or espionage. The shower takes more, but not much; his skin pruning by the time he gets out, shivering in the AI's idea of a reasonable temperature for humans. The clean clothes feel wrong, flowing in strange angles over his body, like they were shaped for someone else, with odd fastenings.

Lex tries to imagine Clark in these rooms--so spartan, compared to his apartment with Lois. Clutter and boxes, piles and left over take-out; neither had been the kind to clean up after themselves. Too intense, between their work and each other to remember domestic chores like taking out the trash and cleaning up the living room once or twice a week. Completely unlike his boyhood room in Smallville, or the loft as well.

Peace, the AI had said. Almost zen-like.

He wonders if Clark came here after their fights. 

Shaking the thought away, Lex drops on the terminal. The temptation to check out the state of the world eats at him, but he's not quite ready to face that yet. Not if it's come together, not if it's out there, destroying more cities, more property, more people. What remains of the Justice League is so outclassed it isn't even funny.

If Superman hadn't died--

Lex stops the thought. It's too easy to fall into the memory, the anger and helpless fear and frustration and, God, why did he *do* it? Lex can't quite wrap his mind around that moment of realization, and thinking on it doesn't help. Tapping a sequence into the keyboard, Lex watches the screen come up. He needs something to do.

"AI," Lex says, then remembers that he told it to stay out. Shit. Leaning away, Lex spins the chair, feeling silly, but it's something to *do*. Lena had hated that. Lena had--

Lex knocks those memories away too.

It's amazing how many things in his life he would prefer to forget.

*****

A long time ago, Lex had wanted more.

Power, wealth, the protection that those things bought--he hadn't always wanted it so much, so desperately, so badly that he'd do anything to have it, to keep it. The transition had been seamless, and even now, Lex can't look back and press his finger on the moment that he stopped believing, stopped being able to pretend, stopped trying.

Homicidal ex-wives and betraying girlfriends galore, but he hadn't stopped believing, not really. Somewhere, he knew, he'd find someone he could live with. Fall in love with. Make a life with. Someone that would be there, for the lonely child still trapped somewhere deep beneath Lex's skin. Someone to talk to, touch, trust, surround himself with, the only protection he'd ever need.

And then he'd stopped, and he's still not sure how that happened.

He never imagined that with Clark, even in the richness of his secret fantasy life. Loving someone was very different than having them, and Lex knew impossible when it stared him in the face with wide dark eyes and said they would always be friends. He knew lies, too, but he thinks that Clark wasn't lying then.

"I would have taken care of you, you know," Lex tells the room. This isn't Clark's room--the AI surely has some sense of decency and would have warned him off if it was--but he can imagine Clark here if he tries. Slim, lithe body, those guileless eyes, that cocksucker mouth. He can see Clark now, t-shirt and ancient jeans that cling to every curve of his ass, smiling at Lex from beneath his bangs. "Back--then. I would have protected you. I never would have--would have--" Used you. Even the thought feels like a lie, though. He remembers twenty one through twenty-four, and he wasn't the person he is now, but he's not sure he's ever been the person that could have made promises like that to Clark and kept them. "I would never have hurt you."

He remembers Clark and Lois--the easy camaraderie, the friendship and rivalry and passionate devotion to work, the way Clark lit up around her, like a supernova. Lois made Clark more of what he already was. 

God knows what Lex would have made him, if he'd had him.

"I would have," he says, and he could believe it if he tried. The person he was then loved Clark to distraction, would have lit himself on fire if Clark asked. 

"He never hated you."

Lex rounds on the source of the voice, trying to locate it. "I said leave me the fuck alone!" He's too utterly exhausted to be embarrassed; that or too fucking angry. "The stupid motherfucker left us to die so he could go out in a blaze of unselfish glory. Don't give me that shit--"

"You were the last one." 

Lex's breath stops. "Last--"

"The last of his family. He couldn't save them." The AI sounds odd, like a student of a foreign language testing their skill. Not entirely sure that what they are saying is what they meant to say.

Lois, in the first attack, hunting down the story with all her soul. The Kent farm a blackened wasteland. Pete and Lana those terrible three days in Metropolis. Superman couldn't be everywhere at once, though he'd tried, God, had he tried. Lex remembers the blur of blue, the exhausted anchormen on the television every day, reciting Superman by rote, trying to save the world, hour after endless, nightmarish hour as the casualty reports came in.

"How the hell would you know?"

"Kal-El knew the necessity of expediency. He would have let you die. Clark--did not believe in expediency." The AI doesn't sound thrilled by that, either. "Are you ready to start pre-jump procedure?"

Nodding warily, Lex stands up, feeling lightheaded. Strange. "Let's get this show on the road."


	4. LResearch Methods

"...your son."

Lex blinks into disturbingly bright lights, trying to make sense of where he is. Something squirming and wet is removed from his hands, and someone slaps him on the back. To the left, a woman's voice forms words, but Lex can't quite understand what they are.

"Sir?"

Lex starts, looking away from the light, to a woman in hospital green beside him. Blonde hair is pulled up under a cap, though a thin curl tickles her temple. Her hands are gloved and covered in blood and fluid, but she's smiling up at him like an idiot.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?" Her smile fades, one hand going out to touch him, and Lex recoils instinctively, taking a step back. Right into a body that doesn't do so much as shift, and that can only be one person.

Spinning on a heel, way too fast, Lex stares up into Clark's huge grin.

"God, Lex--" Instantly, Lex is engulfed in a hug that knocks all the air out. Before he can even find his footing again, he's loose, swaying before a hand clamps down on his arm. "Lex. This is amazing. Thank you."

*Thank you*?

They're in a room--a nice room, actually, but it's definitely a hospital. Nothing quite covers that distinctive smell. A woman in green is taking a baby from someone in the bed, feet still up in stirrups--oh God, no, don't look at that. Jesus, no. A babble of voices surround him as another woman starts marking things on a chart while a doctor examines and cleans--that's a baby.

That's a *baby*.

"Doctor?"

Clark's grip on his arm vanishes as he makes for the women surrounding the baby, looking intent. This is--what the hell was wrong with letting him come in at a time he's sleeping? 

"Doctor Luthor?"

Christ, she's talking to *him*.

Lex takes a deep breath, noticing for the first time that his hands, too, are bloody as hell. Shit. Stripping off the gloves a little desperately, Lex drops them into the nearest wastebasket, staring down at his clothes. Baby. Woman. Blood. Happy noises everywhere, a cacophony that seems to be filling his head. He's a doctor. 

Someone just gave birth.

"Doctor." More urgently. Now he can pick out the baby's wail, pitched for dogs apparently, and his head begins to ache. Blinking slowly, he looks down at the petite blonde, trying to figure out what the hell this is.

"I--need some air." He needs to wake up. The woman nods, patting his arm reassuringly as she leads him to a chair, letting him plop down, without looking at all surprised.

"I understand." Another pat. "This must be--you must be so pleased." Her smile widens, revealing rows and rows of perfect white teeth. They seem to be brighter than the overheads. "When they're finished with her, we'll need you to check her stats." The woman bustles away, and Lex fixes his gaze on the far wall.

Someone had a baby. Clark's baby? Lex's eyes go automatically to the bed, the fall of red brown hair unmistakable, now that he's looking. A shift of her upswung leg--oh God, what he'd give not to have just seen what he'd seen--and Lex sees glowing eyes as Lois watches the doctors with her child.

"Clark--" She tries to struggle up, but a hand gently eases her down. Lex blinks to see Martha Kent, silvery hair pulled back in a barrette, wiping tears from her own eyes.

"He looks fine," Clark says, still looking at the baby, eyes narrowing. "He's--he's perfect, Lois."

Lois and Clark's baby. Lex buries his head in his hands. This can't be happening.

Someone goes to Lois, sitting down between her legs, and Lex fixes his gaze instantly on the ceiling. Somewhere to his left, people continue to do inane things with the baby, and thankfully, everyone leaves him alone. 

A big hand falls on his shoulder. Not Clark. Lex looks up to see Jonathan Kent's tear-stained face.

"You did good, Lex." His voice breaks, and they've officially entered fucking freaked out territory. Lex isn't sure what to say to this--what the hell did he have to do with this? Besides being here, and there's still blood on him--dear God, did he deliver this kid?

He's a *doctor*?

"Dad, come look at your grandkid," Clark says, and Lex steals a glance. Moving carefully, Clark walks to Lois carrying a moving bundle wrapped in blue. Some things stay the same. Boys are always in blue. Gently, Clark hands the baby to Lois, who stares at it like it's an award-winning expose. "He's beautiful."

From what little Lex had seen, he isn't. But newborns seldom are. Taking a deep breath, Lex watches as the Kent family gathers around the bed like this is the second coming of the Messiah, though they are as far from a stable in Bethlehem as they can get right now. Rubbing his head distractedly, Lex keeps his eyes away from the doctor working on Lois. No reason at all to look that direction. None.

"Lex," Clark says, and it's that voice, that damn coaxing voice, that Lex can never resist. Even now. Standing up, Lex forces himself not to think of the filthy hospital gown, slowly making his way over to the happy family gathered around the bed.

Lois tears her eyes from the tiny red face, looking up at him with a breathtaking expression. "You want to take a look at your godson, Lex? Or try to see if you can pass out like Clark did?"

Clark laughs, wiping at his eyes. "I didn't pass out."

Lois laughs, and just like always, it sounds like bells. "Whatever you want to call it." Touching the tiny cheek, Lois's smile softens. "Alex Kent, say hello to your godfather. The one who really did all the work here." Looking back up, she slowly extend the baby to Clark. "Hand him over, Smallville. I'm sure Lex wants to see the result of all those tests."

Lex blinks slowly. With infinite gentleness, Clark takes the baby, cradling the tiny bald head, then turns to Lex. The look on his face is heartbreakingly open. "Lex?"

There's nothing else to do. Numbly, Lex takes the baby, staring into Clark's blue eyes. So small, he seems to weigh nothing. The small eyes seem to narrow as they take him in, face wrinkled and the color of a ripe tomato. "He's--beautiful, Lois." He's really, really not.

Lois laughs softly, reaching for Clark's hand. "You did good, Lex."

Good? Clark's still smiling, and various medical personnel come in and out of the room while Lex holds Clark's child, watching the tiny mouth open in a thoughtful yawn, then squirm. "I think--he wants his mother back." Clark takes the baby, immediately handing it back to Lois, Jonathan and Martha Kent nearly hanging over the bed, watching his every breath.

"Doctor." The hand on his arm makes him turn--*doctor*?--and the blonde is back. "The results from Ms Lane and Alex Kent have been forwarded to your office terminal. Did you want to look them over--"

Look at them? Lex blinks. "No. That's fine, Miss--" Lex checks out the nametag, "--Reynolds."

The doctor working on Lois lets her legs down, thank God, and now Lex can look around the room a little. A cheery little room painted in yellow, the perfect place to give birth comfortably. Definitely a step up from an operating room. Lex wonders if it would be suspicious if he passed out right now.

"Mr. Kent and family, if you will--" The nurse motions toward the door with a determined smile. "We need to get Ms Lane and the baby cleaned up. You can wait for them in recovery."

Lex nods blindly, then wonders if he's included. From the look the nurse gives him, yes, he has to go. Thank you God.

Not far, though. Clark's hand clamps down on his shoulder. "Come on. We'll get you a cup of coffee. I thought you were going to pass out when the baby came out."

And that's just so close to true. "I thought I might too." Clark's grip doesn't diminish as they walk out the door, and it's just easier to let Clark steer them to the vending machine. While Clark fishes for quarters from his pocket, Lex tries to breathe. "Congratulations, Clark."

Clark beams, forgetting change, and Lex is engulfed in another bear hug. This time, he holds his ground, slowly lifting his arms enough to circle the man in his arms. It seems to go on forever. Clark smells of antiseptic and blood and sweat and exhaustion, but he feels amazing. Almost light.

And it's been so long since Clark--a Clark he liked--touched him. Even if his body isn't quite sure. Lex's body might not carry the memories of the other Clarks, but his head did.

Across from them, the Kents are curled up in domestic bliss, looking so pleased--and Lex isn't forgetting Jonathan's smile at him anytime soon. So. Working theory. He's some kind of doctor and he's apparently really close to the Kent family. Or so Clark's unending hug would seem to suggest.

It could be worse.

"I know you said it would work, but--" Clarks' mouth works a little in speechless wonder, and Lex wonders how he can force out words from that wide smile. "You did it."

"Did it?" Did *what*? The snips of comments are trying to come together, but Lex can't quite get a handle on it. 

Clark laughs, pulling him back into the hug, and Lex gives into it. It's just simpler . And there's nothing wrong with hugging as far as Lex is concerned. It requires less into the way of talking.

"You just--amaze me." Another hug, and Clark shakes himself, stepping back. Martha's voice intrudes, and Clark gives his arm another squeeze before going to his parents, completely forgetting the coffee. Lex leans into the machine. So, he did something. And it worked.

"Dr. Luthor." A hand is thrust in his line of vision--Lex looks up to see the doctor who'd been with Lois. "Congratulations."

Lex accepts the hand numbly and tries not to think where it had been. "Thank you. But Lois did all the work in there." He just delivered the goddamn thing.

"Your research in gene splicing will be instrumental in assuring other couples are as lucky as the Kent family," the big man continues, still shaking Lex's hand. Lex nods, beginning to feel a little seasick. Gene splicing? "I'll look forward to your final paper. Give the Kents my best. We hope that this will be the first of many happy families." And with that, the man vanishes, like a meteor mutant with teleportation abilities.

Gene splicing. Giving Clark a look, Lex frowns. Gene splicing. For a baby. For a baby from a human woman and an alien man. Oh. *Oh*. So he's not just a doctor. He's a fucking *geneticist*.

This would be funny if he didn't think he was five seconds from hyperventilating.

New working theory--he's the person that mix and matched Lois and Clark's kid together.

Taking a deep breath, Lex pulls the gown away from his pockets, looking for change. He doesn't need coffee, he needs a fucking *drink*, but he doesn't think the machine dispenses alcohol on demand. Lex feels an unreasonable shot of anger at it. Stupid fucking machine. This and the AI. 

"You look like you need air," Clark says, suddenly reappearing beside him, hand on his arm. Clark's never been this touchy-feely before. "Come on. They'll be awhile with Lois and Alex." His mouth turns up in another insanely wide grin. "Mom, Dad, be right back. Lex looks like he's going to pass out."

"Go ahead," Jonathan says with what looks like a happy smile directly at Lex.

Lex follows Clark to the stairs. He can't really think of anything else to do at this point that doesn't involve just sitting down and having a careful breakdown. This isn't bad. From sociopath to new father. It's not unreasonable, Lex reasons. Clark would make an excellent father, Lex had always thought so. And it's not impossible that Lex took up a career in medicine. Genetics, even.

Clark looks ready to shake apart with excitement--that smile's just unbelievable. 

Outside is better--fresh, clean air and normal parking lot and if Lex squints, he can think this is a perfectly normal day.

If he squints really hard.

"I've been scared to death," Clark whispers.

It's going to take a lot of squinting to tune that out.

"Clark?"

Clark's hands shove themselves deeply into his pockets. "I know I didn't need to worry, but--" Clark sighs a little, then looks at him from under his bangs. "I just--couldn't let myself hope too much, you know?"

Lex nods. Yes, he does know.

A warm hand settles on his shoulder. "Thanks, Lex."

Yes, he really, really does know.

*****

Chloe's been cooing over the baby for over an hour. Pete hasn't shut up about the presidential debates. Jonathan keeps having to excuse himself to go get some air, giving Lex creepy, warm pats on the back. Everything is basically beyond belief strange, and Lex isn't sure if this reality disturbs him less than the other.

"When is Helen due back?" Clark asks, while packing up the hospital room. Lois already went downstairs a few minutes ago, on her own feet, in her own heels, mumbling that there was no way in hell anyone was getting her into a wheelchair while she was conscious enough to stop it. Lex is here because he really has no idea how he can ask where he lives these days, but he's got to try.

"Helen?" And wasn't that name enough to bring up some extraordinarily unpleasant memories.

Clark rolls his eyes, tucking the last shirt into the suitcase before shutting it. "Helen? Your wife? Neurosurgeon? You might have met at the wedding."

"I'm--not sure." Lex tries to pull up her face. Big eyes, crooked mouth, killer legs. Tried to kill him once or twice. Though apparently not here, or as not as successfully. "Soon."

Clark grins, grabbing Lois' purse from the unmade bed. "You know, for a brilliant doctor, you are fucked when it comes to remembering dates." Clark's smile fades. "Lex, is something wrong?

And there is no possible way to answer that question truthfully. "Just tired, Clark." Lex smiles to give it more power. He is tired, in so many ways.

A subdued grin answers. "You've been tired for a while. Next time she wants to go on vacation? *Go*. The world of genetic research won't up and die just because you aren't micromanaging every second." Clark glances around the room briefly. "Okay. You want a ride home, or are you going to see if you can pass out over your desk again?"

That is the most brilliant thing Clark has ever said. "I would love a ride."

The walk to the car is the kind of comfortably friendly that Lex remembers from Smallville. He lets Clark just talk, storing up the information to mull later. Married to Helen. Who didn't try to kill him. Or did, but they got beyond that little marital spat. Or maybe she did, and then he forgot about it. He has a house, apparently, and Clark mentions the cat, and Lex *hates* cats.

He hates, hates cats.

"Hurry it up," comes a voice, and Lex sees Lois already tucked into the front of a desperately domestic minivan. It's unreal. "I want to get home this century, Clark. Hop in, Lex." She flashes a smile, and Lex watches the minivan doors slide open, Clark shoving luggage inside before stepping aside. "Sorry about the mess, Lex. You really shouldn't have let Clark drag you out of bed and drive you this morning."

A glance at the sun shows late afternoon. Lex nods numbly, trying not to look too hard at the sleeping baby in the car seat beside him, buckling up mostly because it gives his hands something to do.

The door shuts with a merry tinkle of metal, and Lex draws some slow breaths. He can do this.

He can so do this.

*****

Home is a house in upper class suburban Metropolis.

Lex stares at the door, somehow surprised to find a key in his pockets, even more surprised that he knows the code for the security system.

At some point, he's going to have to admit to himself this isn't the most terrible thing ever.

A pile of mail rests beside the phone in the hall. This is more Lex's taste than anywhere he's ever lived--minimal furnishings, muted colors, the perfect calm background. Lex likes the high ceilings and approves of the warm leather furniture in what appears to be his office.

He's not so sure he approves of the second desk, the miasma of paper and clutter informing him that this side of the room is Helen's.

He shares his *office*, for God's sake.

So far as Lex can tell, there isn't any help, though there's a grocery list beneath a magnet on the big refrigerator. TyNant water inside. A dizzying array of fruits and vegetables, more milk than he ever suspected anyone could need, and fine china in the cabinets. Clean granite countertops. All in all, he thinks he could live here comfortably.

He even thinks he might actually *like* it.

Explorations end with the dining room, and Lex leaves the twelve-seat dining room table that he faintly remembers belonging to his mother in their house in Philadelphia, going up the wide stairs to the second floor. His head says that he should get down to business in finding out what happened with that metallic monstrosity in this reality, but there's a kind of morbid fascination that comes into play when exploring your own alternate life. The last one hadn't been that great, less known the better, but this one--

He's a *doctor*.

The room is all warm shades of blue and green, and Lex thinks he can feel Helen's influence here. There's guest rooms, suitably bland, and an upstairs media room. Nothing less than what he'd have expected eventually, had his marriage to Helen not ended with attempted homicide.

Downstairs again. So. He's a doctor. A geneticist, apparently. Does LexCorp exist? Lex rubs his hands restlessly into the neat black pants, not quite up to his usual style. He'd almost swear they were off the rack.

"I can do this." He should find out if Helen's due anytime soon. Years pass, but rage never quite does. Unexpectedly running into her in the house might turn out very badly for whatever Lex lives here. 

"Lex?"

And here Lex had thought that the last universe he was visiting would have taught him to *feel* this sort of thing.

Clark materializes in front of him, serious dark eyes and strangely stern mouth. Glimpses of Superman in the strong set of the jaw, like when Superman descends from on high to administer justice. Very fucking annoying right now.

But Clark's still there, too. "We have a problem."

Oh. "A problem?" Lex tries to think, but God alone knows what kinds of problems Clark comes to him to fix these days. Diapers? DNA coding? Wine choices? "Okay."

"Come on." A big hand wraps around Lex's wrist, but gently, pulling him unresistingly past his office, past the kitchen, stopping at a closed door at the end. Clark murmurs something before pushing it open.

Lex is almost instantly blinded by the light inside. A few blinks later, he gets the impression of a second office--thank you God, he has a private office here somewhere--but Clark's heading for the back wall, staring at it for a second before murmuring a word that doesn't sound anything like English.

And like that, there's a door.

Lex blinks. "Clark--"

"I need you to look at something," Clark says, and Lex has never felt more like a giant stuffed animal as he's pulled inside what appears to be--an elevator.

An elevator? "Clark--"

"I know, it's kind of early," Clark says, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "So I'm being a little paranoid." A gorgeous smile lights up his face. "Lois said I should look before I jitter myself into a fit or something." Without missing a beat, Clark pushes on a flat metal panel and the elevator whines softly before it starts to descend. "I re-read your reports to the League, and I was thinking--" The words are cut off by the door opening, and Clark walks out, forgetting Lex's wrist.

Lex doesn't need urging. At least, not much.

A huge room, probably spanning the entire size of the first floor of the house. Against one wall is a screen and a variety of computers that he can't even begin to recognize. Lex lets himself stare at the alien pod sitting on a platform nearby.

This. Isn't. Happening.

"Welcome, Clark, Lex." The voice of the AI here is distinctly masculine, and Lex draws in a deep breath. "There have been no reported disasters--"

"Just research, AI," Clark says, and Lex doesn't laugh, but only because he's staring at the high ceilings and sunken fluorescent lights. "Can you pull up the report on the latest Metropolis crime wave? I was thinking and something occurred to me--"

Lex lets himself take two more steps, and with Clark's back turned to him, slowly look around, taking it in. There's something familiar about the set-up, though he can't quite put his finger on what. Neatly tiled floors and painted walls. A spaceship in his cellar. The fucking Fortress in his cellar. A big, heavy looking metal door that looks like a walk-in safe. A smaller set of platforms with disturbingly familiar clothes inside, and at first, Lex can't quite take in what he's seeing, though really, it's obvious, isn't it?

"You want to look at this, Lex?" Clark asks, and Lex snaps his head around. A bewildering graph is building and collapsing in a myriad flash of colors over and over again, which apparently makes some kind of sense to Clark.  
`  
"I--uh. Already did." Lex tries to force himself to take a step. "I--agree with you." It seems safest. Clark flashes a smile over his shoulder before sitting down, tapping at the keyboard at just under the speed of sound. There's a second chair beside Clark, and Lex eyes it for a minute, but he needs to sit, like, *now*. His legs aren't going to hold him much longer.

The chair fits him, in that perfectly designed way that says he spends a lot of time here and needs the comfort. Oh God. The computer hums at him like they're old friends, oh *God*, and Clark is saying things that are, in fact, English, but Lex isn't absorbing more than the surface of the words.

"Bruce thinks it's a good idea," Clark is saying, and Lex nods dumbly, glancing at the keyboard long enough to recognize that not one symbol on there is human. Nor are the letters on the smaller screen. Lex struggles to read it, but he's never been fluent in Kryptonian, and apparently, Clark is fond of the complex/compound sentence in a really big way.

"He does?" It's almost hypnotizing. Lex blinks, but everything is still here. Clark's Superman uniform in that damn glass case, and it's itching him, because Lex could swear this reminds him of somewhere else--

"Yeah." Stopping abruptly, Clark stretches, and Lex forces himself not to look too hard. "After I go on patrol, you might want to call him up and see if he's ready or not."

Ready. Right. "Good idea." And this is what he's reduced to. Lex looks down at his  
 pants. Definitely off the rack. And this shirt feels like plain cotton. 

This isn't a good sign.

"Lex? You okay?"

Lex snaps his attention back to Clark, flinching when a big hand rests on his wrist. The pretty face frowns, and for a second, Lex is seeing a completely different Clark. But just for a second. "Your heart's pounding." Clark sounds worried, but he doesn't touch Lex again, hand slipping guiltily into his own lap, clenching into a fist. "Is everything okay?"

Hell *no*. "So much has happened today," Lex says slowly, testing the words on his tongue. Yes, it really has. "How is Alex settling in?"

Clark's face instantly glows. "Sleeping. Mom and Dad are practically hovering over the bassinet."

"I'm surprised you could tear yourself away." Keep it on a topic that Lex can actually discuss.

"It was close to patrol anyway." Clark stretches again, and this time, Lex lets himself look. Even now, in that freakish flannel and jeans, he's the hottest thing Lex has ever seen. And so far, no signs of random fits of violence. "I'd better get going." Standing up, Clark glances down with an awkward look, and Lex wonders what Clark's expecting of him. "I'll report in a couple of hours. You--are you sure you're okay?"

Lex tries a closed lip smile. "It's just been a long day. Don't mind me. Go--patrol." He can't make himself stop watching, not when Clark goes over to the platform, removing a uniform which resembles in many unfortunate ways the uniform of his Superman. 

He's never seen the transformation, so he thinks he can be forgiven for staring. One second, young father in flannel--how was it that Lois hadn't broken him of that habit?--then the slow slide of material off bare skin. Clark, apparently, has no modesty issues to speak of. But then, they're in a secret bunker underneath Lex's house, Lex sitting at a supercomputer and Clark--

A supersecret superhero hideout in the basement.

"Christ. I'm Alfred."

Clark looks up with a bright smile. Right. Superhearing. "I always thought of you as a better dressed, noncombatant Robin, really." The jeans hit the floor. Lex looks away, or tries to, but the tights come out, sliding up long legs, and there are a thousand nasty things he's said about Superman, but no one else could possibly make tights look that hot.

"Take a picture," Clark says, and Lex almost grins at the teasing of the adolescent in his never-reliable memory, peering out for just a moment. "It'll last longer."

"Fuck off."

Clark laughs and turns away, picking up the boots. What do they call this, Lex thinks, trying to tamp down the open panic. The Fortress? The Supercave? Does Batman laugh his ass off? At least they aren't any fucking bats.

Lex clenches both hands in his lap, the buzz of the computer familiar, like being at the Fortress in the Arctic. Clark fastens the uniform top in place, straightening the cape. "You sure you don't want to go out tonight?" Clark asks.

"What?"

Clark shrugs. "It's a slow night. You get bored easily." Clark moves back toward him--no, Superman does, except the hair's all wrong. 

"To--patrol?" Lex's eyes instantly find the second case that he'd been ignoring with careful determination--minds are fragile things, and he thinks his isn't up to identifying the glimpse of purple. That's not spandex, that's not spandex, that's not-- "No. No. I'm good." Don't look. Not yet. Not *ever*. "You go--do your thing. I'll stay here. Um. Research."

Doctor, geneticist, and superhero sidekick. Breathe, Lex.

"Got it." Clark floats casually into the air, like he's not even aware of what he's doing. "Call in two hours. See you." A ribbon of red/blue blurs before Clark is gone, only the sound of displaced air behind him, like a subway. Lex closes his eyes, leaning back into his perfectly fitted chair.

"I'm a sidekick." Don't look at that second uniform. "I am Lex Luthor, superhero sidekick. I report to the Justice League." Clark had said that, right?

"Lex?" 

Shit, he'd forgotten the AI, and how the hell had he done that? Spinning the chair around, Lex looks at the screen, almost like he would a face. "Yes?"

A slow, thrumming starts at Lex's feet through the tile and goes up.

"There was a dimensional disturbance," the computer told him, flashing equations that are familiar, even if they make as just much sense as the ones he saw at the Fortress. "The resonance continues to gain strength."

Lex leans back, eyes narrowing. Interesting. "Can you tell me where?"

Lex feels the low hum in the arches of his feet, creeping along the back of his neck. 

"The abnormality is focused on the hospital." The Fortress hums again, even lower, and the little hair on Lex's body straightens abruptly. "And here. Lex Luthor."

Lex crosses his arms over his chest. "Not bad." He wonders how smart this is, baiting a supercomputer. He knows shit about this world. Just that flicker of the other Lex in him, not so violently different as the other one, except--

"Who are you?" It occurs to him belatedly that this was a monumentally stupid mistake--this is a fucking *AI*. If anyone could fuck up what he's trying to do, it could. The hum jumps in tone and volume, and Lex shudders. The chair doesn't feel quite so comfortable anymore. "Where are you from?"

"I'm Lex." Or the AI could give him a fast and easy way to figure out what he needs to know. "Lex Luthor."

"You are not of here."

"You're *good*." If the AI of his world could open dimensional portals, then the AI could certainly detect them. Maybe even sense whatever percentage of a difference there was between this Lex and the other one. "I'm--visiting. Reconnaissance, if you will." 

The AI pauses. "The resonance indicates your world is dying."

Lex closes his eyes. "Yeah. That's what I'm trying to fix." Dying. Lex is glad he didn't check the news. "I need information. The Fortress--your counterpart, I think--told me that some worlda managed to defeat--this thing." Lex's throat closes. "We need to find a way to defeat it."

"Your--Kal, I assume--is no longer among you?"

"No."

The hum lightens a little, which Lex takes a positive sign. "Do you have a name?"

"Organic machine. Kryptonite infected. Destroys everything. And no, so far as I can tell, it doesn't have a motive."

"Or interested in an alliance?"

Yes, remind him of *that* bit of stupidity. Not that the AI could know that. "It wasn't interested in much of anything but destruction." He'll never forget the smells, which is weird. Burned stone and hot metal. Rotting, burned wood, ash. The air so dry it had burned his lungs. "You defeated it. How?"

The AI hums thoughtfully. Yeah, that's getting fucking annoying. "I will have to access my memory--"

"And that should take, what, five seconds?"

"Kal has limited my ability to access my data banks." And damned if it doesn't sound uncomfortable.

Lex tilts his head. "That doesn't sound like Clark. Why would he hobble his secret supercomputer?"

The equations on the screen flicker. If Lex were to put a name to the frantic activity, he just might say that the computer was embarrassed. "There was an incident--that made it seem wise to--curtail my freedom to access unlimited information."

Oh. *Oh*. Lex almost laughs. "I don't believe it. *You* tried to take over the world, so they Celeroned your ass?"

"Direct it," the AI answers firmly. "I had no intentions of destruction, but of order and the progress of the species--"

"That's what we all say." Lex spins in the chair, grinning. Life can be marvelous. Especially other people's. "I mean, right after, 'I'm really misunderstood', and 'You don't understand my vision', and 'I know what's best for the world' and 'God, why can't you just trust me', and--"

"I take it you have some experience with ethical quandaries?"

"I don't have ethics. I have power." Straightening in the chair, Lex studies the keyboard. He recognizes most of the symbols, but that's as far as he can get. "You have something in English?"

"Security measure," the computer answers shortly. "Your motives--"

"Trust me, I have absolutely no interest in monkey wrenching this little utopia of yours. All I want is information." Lex pauses. "Preferably in two days."

"That's the length of time you will be among us?"

"Until I revert, yes." Lex recognizes the Kryptonian equivalent of an A. So far so good. "I mean, what can I do, after all--"

"A great deal of damage." Instantly, the equations vanish, and Lex is blindsided by a panorama of visuals. Some are dark purple blurs. At some point, he's going to have to face that last uniform, but hell if it's going to be now. "Whatever your function in your world, you are necessary to the integrity of this one."

"Glad to hear it." In no universe where Lex Luthor is sane does he even consider--that purple thing. "What--do I do?" More information never hurt anyone. If you left out the psychological aspects. "You want to tell me what I'm supposed to pretend?"

Clearly, the AI isn't sure what to say at this point. Lex doesn't blame it. "You can monitor me, can't you? All I want is information to save my world. You are all welcome to superhero your little brains out after I leave. I don't give a shit."

"I can find you the information you need," the AI says grudgingly. Okay, so no further information on what this-Lex does. Great. Getting up, Lex doesn't look at the flashing visuals still running, like a soundless music video, and his eyes fall instantly on the purple thing behind glass.

Is that--a cape? And--a rocket-propelled--that's a *jet pack*.

"Oh. Hell. No." Once seen can't be unseen, though Lex thinks another round of electroshock wouldn't be amiss, if it could erase this. "That's ridiculous. I'd set myself on fire--"

"The uniform is flame retardant." And fuck if the AI doesn't sound really amused.

"That thing can't possibly work."

"You--or your counterpart--invented it. It does work." 

"It's the Rockateer, after a bad acid night." What Lex wouldn't give for that to be true. Because now all those purple blurs on the screen are making a strange sort of sense. "I don't believe it." Turning around, Lex stares in sick fascination as the video footage on the screen resolves into him. Flying. 

Wearing *purple*.

"Christ." Lex sat down on the edge of the platform, feeling the glare of all that purple spandex into his back. To think, he'd actually thought this could be a livable world.

*****

Lois calls at some point to check in, and Lex leaves it to the computer to answer. Staring blankly at the Cellar of Solitude--and if Clark actually calls it that, Lex is giving up and declaring this entire last few days an extended hallucination--he tries to put things in perspective.

The vault works by coded lock, which the AI won't give him access to. Poking through the corners of the room doesn't yield much in the way of information, though some intriguingly interesting devices he rally wants to check out.

"Are you going to tell Clark?" Lex asks finally. Superheroing is so boring. He'd always suspected it, but this confirms it. Superheroes do a lot of sitting around, contemplating eternity or their toenails, waiting for the bad guys to do something. The other side is far more interesting, Lex thinks, hating the keyboard for not being a language he knows.

"No."

Lex tilts his head. "Oh?"

The AI hums again. Lex is beginning to think the tones can indicate stress--or whatever the equivalent is in an AI's lexicon of emotional responses. "It would be unwise." Another pause. "At this time, the world is in delicate balance--"

"You don't think he'll believe you?" AIs who try to take over the world might not be considered so trustworthy. 

"He would believe me, Lex Luthor." Another pause, more thoughtful. "If my counterpart thought it was necessary to send you across dimensions, then I must respect that."

"I could have corrupted it." Lex has had fantasies like that, which probably says some sad things about his life to date. It used to be underwear models and flannel-clad men in work boots. How depressing. "I could have--"

"You might have. But I would have sensed deception. The body you inhabit is not your own. And I am programmed to register the slightest change in respiration--"

"Oh." Lex had forgotten that part. He hasn't actually sat down to see what was different in the bodies--it had *felt* relatively okay, but that didn't mean much. "Right." Strange, he doesn't feel much of a stirring of other-Lex in him. Maybe blank, unending terror leaked through more easily. "So what do I do, besides sit here? While you access the information I need? Won't Clark get--suspicious? Or wonder if something is wrong?"

There is something else going on with the AI, Lex is sure, but if the computer's going to keep the secret, Lex doesn't honestly care that much. Sitting back, he watches the screen curl in colors as more footage crosses. "How long do I usually hang out here?"

"As long as Clark patrols." The computer switches the footage, and Lex has a view of Clark at a distance, flying serenely through the sky. Far above the petty humans he protected.

Wow, Lex thinks, leaning back into the warm comfort of the chair. It's remarkably easy to restart the entire cycle of resentment.

"Do I do anything? Research, or something?"

"Often." 

Well, that's helpful. "What would I be doing tonight?"

"Patrolling with Superman. You don't often leave the lab, so you seem to enjoy your nights--"

"And that's a hell no. I wear that thing?" These pants are itching. Not just off the rack. Lex has a horrible feeling they may have come from a chain store. "In public?"

"Yes." The AI hums again. "You have a--codename. You are called--"

"No." Oh no, no, no. Sidekicks have the most horrible names. Somewhere in there will be the word 'boy', Lex can feel it. "No, don't tell me. I can't handle that."

"In your world--"

"'That motherfucking Luthor is about as far as anyone's gotten." Goosebumps are breaking out all over his skin. He feels dizzy. "How long are you going to take to find what I need to know?"

"It is not easy to access my memory banks," the AI says shortly. "I am--restricted in the amount of power I can use. And I hold the entirety of Kryptonian and multiple human cultures in my memory. With my current configuration, it is not a simple matter to access the data you require."

Lex sits back, frowning. "In other words, this is going to take a while."

"Yes. This will take a while."

*****

Clark checks in at the ungodly hour of three AM, and Lex stares at the smiling face on the screen, babbling happily about a tsunami and some rockfall in Switzerland, or maybe Haiti.

"...go back to Smallville tomorrow." 

Wait, that was actually important information. Lex wakes himself up. "What?"

Clark rolls his eyes. "I thought you might want to come to Smallville with me and Lois for a day or so. You've been working too hard. You look tired."

Lex nods dumbly. The earnestness is frighteningly sincere.

"We can see how the castle is. You haven't been back in awhile. Maybe the cook will make those peanut butter cookies you like." Clark offers it like some kind of weird incentive. Is this his idea of bribery? Dear God, is this *Lex's* idea of bribery?

Lex's eyes flicker to the keyboard of the AI. "I have some things to do here, Clark--"

"Just for the day, then. You never turn down trips to Smallville." Clark's face gets that pinched, worried look. It'd be unattractive on anyone else, but like the tights, Clark somehow pulls it off. "We'll have fun."

Lex frowns. Fun. Not a word he'd ever associated with Smallville, not since coming back to Metropolis. "I don't know--"

"You're coming." Clark says it like it's written in stone. "You need the break."

Shit. "Fine." He tries to sound gracious, but he thinks he's coming off more annoyed than anything else. "Anything else?"

"Well, you don't have to act like it's such a huge deal." Clark doesn't pout, but it's a very close thing. 

And alienating the alien--probably not a good idea. "Clark, I--it's just. So much is going on." Dear God, is so much going on.

"Your research will wait." But Clark looks happier. At least in this universe, Lex has an actual job. Even if it is just the lab. "Okay, gotta fly."

The connection clicked off. Clark's phone manners leave a lot to be desired.

*****

"It will be several more hours," the AI told him helpfully. "When you return, I should have the information you need."

That's how Lex ends up in a minivan heading toward Smallville.

The town hasn't changed at all, which irritates Lex's already abraded nerves. Worse, people *greet* him. Lex realizes with a shock like cold water that whatever he is here, it's certainly not feared or disliked.

The inner-Lex is insanely amused, in a low-key, vibrating kind of way that does nothing for his mood. Lois stays at the Kent farmhouse with her laptop and the baby, the Kent family gathered protectively around, while Clark loads Lex back into the minivan for a trip to the castle.

Because that is really what Lex needs right now.

"You work too hard," Clark observes from the driver's seat, like this is world-shattering news or something.

"It's been a busy week." It might have been. How the hell would Lex know, anyway? "So." Conversation. Clark keeps giving him side looks, like he's working himself up to ask some kind of question that Lex will be completely unable to answer. 

"I was thinking," Clark says, breaking the uncomfortable silence, staring balefully out the windshield. Clark did good baleful. Superman made it a kind of art, come to think. "I-I know that you've been careful about everything." Clark frowns to himself, like that wasn't what he meant to say. "I mean, with Helen. Shit." Clark shakes his head, pulling to the side of the road. Lex notes that their epic bridge is in view. Of course. It's just that kind of a dimension. "Do you want to tell her?"

Lex blinks slowly. "Tell her?"

Clark flushes. "About me. About--what I do." Clark shifts uncomfortably, like they've had this conversation before, but from the other side. "I--I've been freaked out by it, but--she's your wife. And I know--I *know* how much of a strain this has been on your marriage."

Can't be anything close to wedding day homicide, Lex thinks, but nods appropriately. You, Clark, have no idea what new and interesting kinds of strain that causes.

"And she's--been great about it. Supportive. So. Lois and I were talking and--we both think that telling Helen would be a good idea."

And so epically bad. Lex stares into the sincere green eyes. Clark obviously had received some kind of head injury last night. "Tell her?"

Clark nods. "You've kept this secret for years. She's been with you for a long time. It's not like--I mean, she's not Desiree." Unaccountably, Clark flushes even harder, and Lex suddenly wants to know what that particular ex-wife did that makes Clark look like that. The ideas are entertaining in themselves. "You're my best friend, have been for years. I don't want you to lose your wife over this."

Lex imagines Helen for a moment; test tubes, the sterile smell of her lab, the harsh white of her lab coat, the wide, sharp curiosity of her eyes. Her softness had all been in her skin, her hair, warm only to touch. It's been too many years for him to remember everything. Even if he wanted to.

"I don't know--"

"I do." Clark sounds uncharacteristically solemn, and Lex turns in the seat to look at him. Clark gives good determination. "It's me that--you--"

Helen's bright mind and her curiosity and that way she could compartmentalize her life--fuck a fiancée and betray him to his father, love him with the same smile she killed him with. Helen is always Helen. Loving her hadn't been much of a choice, but trust had been, and he doesn't think making that mistake again can lead anywhere good. How many years had they been married, anyway? Could anyone perform for that long? 

Lex thinks she could.

"No."

Clark stares at the steering wheel, then unbuckles his seatbelt, opening the minivan door and getting out. Sitting in an empty minivan at the side of the road is even less fun than Lex imagined--he slides out, trying to find the rhythm of this Clark, of this Lex he's supposed to be. This Lex may be some kind of superhero--Christ, he's not thinking about that again if he can help it--but he hopes he isn't a complete idiot.

Though that uniform's a good argument for the contrary.

Clark walks to the bridge, doubtless feeling that moments like this need symbology to back them up. Like their entire lives aren't massive, world-ending omens and anvils for the future. If Lex didn't know better, he'd think he lived in one of his comic books.

He joins Clark at the rail Lex wants to think years and bitterness and hate had finally dampened the power of this place, but time's funny in the things it never quite lets go. He's just as silent before this, just as slightly awed, even though he knows now, who saved him, and how, and why.

"You--you've done a lot for me," Clark murmurs, staring down into the water. There's history here, and in this place, Lex almost wants to know. Trace the fine differences in their past that made this future possible. "I--do you remember? When I was learning how to fly?"

Lex blinks. "A little."

Clark's smile is wistful. "You got the entire gym my freshman year in college." Clark laughs.

\--"Lex, I'm in the *air*. I'm *flying*."--  
\--"And doing it very badly, but I guess we shouldn't model you after avians." --

Lex shivers at the sudden influx of memory--an image from a rainy day and a boy and a hundred different promises that led to that night. That other Lex is getting stronger, pushing more. Not like the last one, who barely cared if he got back his body. This one is watching--Lex can feel it like an itch just beneath his skin.

The AI hadn't ever gotten around to explaining what he should do if the other Lex wasn't too happy with being temporarily booted.

"What are you thinking?" Clark asks suddenly. Lex pushes himself off the rail, blinking away the tempting haze of other memories. They'd trap him here. And he has things to do.

"Just--maybe we should think for a while. Not rush into anything."

Clark rolls his eyes. "You've been married to her for almost fifteen years. She--she deserves to know."

She may know already, Lex doesn't say, bites his tongue. Helen could just as easily have a double life as Lex does. 

"When she gets back--" he lets it trail off. Unfocused promises of the future might satisfy him for now. Other Lex can deal with whatever shit falls if Clark so completely loses his mind and pushes forward.

Clark turns his head, smiling at Lex. It tempts him back down, leaning both elbows on the rail, relax beside the tall, slim body. The friendship's so close to surface now, like it hasn't been in more years and more betrayals than Lex can hope to count. So old, but so close, almost like yesterday. "Clark." This isn't that other Lex, pushing through this time. This is him, stupid enough to want to touch this, if only for a moment. 

It's been years, too many, and there's never been anyone like Clark, before or since.

Clark's head turns, honey slow. Softly parted lips, eyes lit up with the easy affection of people who've known each other so long, so well, there aren't any surprises left. I wanted this, Lex thinks, feeling a start of pain. I wanted this, even if I couldn't have anything else. I wanted this and would have done anything to have it. Anything at all.

"Clark." His voice almost breaks. "Do you ever wonder--wonder what would have happened if I hadn't found out? About you?"

Clark's eyes widen, pupils swallowing the iris. "Yeah." His voice catches. "I--when I got you out, you just kept--" Clark's voice does break then, and he looks away, staring into the water. "Everything they did to you. In there. You barely remembered your own name, but you remembered--remembered I was your friend. And that--that I would get you out." Clark's shoulders begin to shake. "I--"

"Clark--"

Clark shakes his head. "I think about it, what you saw. When I went to get you out. All the secrets didn't matter, not with--not when it was your life. It's when I found out who I was. Who I wanted to be."

Lex's skin shivers. The other Lex is trying to push things up, dream-like images with a familiar flavor, but Lex pushes them back down. When, he almost wants to yell it, grab Clark by the shoulders and shake him. When did I do the right thing, say the right thing, what made you trust this one and not me? What the hell did you *want*? What did I need to do?

"I guess--I never really--I don't like to think about it." The corners of Clark's mouth turn up in a hard smile, so unlike him that Lex almost draws back. "What they did to you--what your father did--"

It's too much--the inner assault and the outer, and that look in Clark's eyes that he's never seen before, vengeful and dark with old hurt. It's almost blinding, the images, some fitting into the slots already in his head because he's always had them, and one more--dream-like, soft around the edges.

I thought I was crazy, Lex thinks. That white washed, sterile building, that car coming at him at sixty miles an hour, and Clark standing between him and the car, between Lex and the entire goddamn world if he had to. Belle Reve's never been this vivid before. He's never tried to remember before.

You left, Lex thinks. You left. And then you came back.

"Lex?"

I *saw* that. Not part of the insanity, the drug haze, from Helen's betrayal to the day he emerged from Belle Reve with something forever missing, though he never really knew what it was until now. I *saw* you, you betrayed yourself for me, and I never knew. I never remembered.

You hated him, that other Lex murmurs spitefully. You hated him for not telling you everything, but he did that, he did it for you, and he went to rescue you, and you never knew.

I didn't *remember*.

"Lex?"

"I didn't know--" Lex backs up a step, tripping over a loose board. Clark's eyes widen almost comically, and Lex would have laughed if he'd had enough air. A lifetime of hate built on a lie. Clark had never told him, and Lex had never thought to wonder. 

"Lex?" One big hand catches his wrist before he can tumble on his ass like the idiot he is. "Lex, what's wrong?"

"I." Nothing. Lex just stares at him. It's almost the same Clark, but not quite. This one had to live with the knowledge of a Lex who knew his every secret. You can't overcome a lifetime of hate in a second, but Lex thinks that he just might be coming close. "You should have told me."

He should have, but he didn't. Lex wouldn't have either, not to the person that walked out of Belle Reve.

"Lex?" Both hands on him now, so close that Lex can smell the detergent he uses on his clothes. Clark looks scared. Lex can't really blame him. "You--are you okay? Did you--"

There's no way to explain it. No way to wonder. "Clark. I just--" What the hell does he say? "Sleep deprivation."

Clark just stares at him, and Lex thinks that expression must be a lot like some of the ones he's given Clark over the years, with the words like 'adrenaline' attached. You have *got* to be kidding me, it says. You are fucking unbelievable, it says. And, you can get away with that right now, but only because I'm so stupidly in love with you.

Kissing Clark isn't like he imagined. For one, when he'd imagined it, Clark had fought back.

Not so much with that.

Clark's mouth is soft, and the big hands grip even tighter, like he's scared Lex is going to back down. A lot of things try to run through his head all at once--stupid, not this, Lois, baby, no, no, no, but that other Lex isn't trying to fight him. A perfect single-minded meld of hunger and old disappointment and want so thick it's like a taste. Whatever happened here, some things stayed the same. Lex has never wanted anyone, anywhere, the way he wanted Clark.

Any of them.

Lex isn't sure how he ends up half-backed into the guardrail, Clark's teeth against his neck, being pawed through his cheap jacket and touched roughly and needed and--

"Clark." No, wait. What?

"Don't." Clark's voice is muffled, gentler now. "Don't say stop again. Don't say--"

Again?

"We can't do this." Why the hell *not*? Lex's hands untangle themselves from dark, silky hair. "You--your wife--"

"Shut *up*." Clark backs off, though, but not enough so Lex can get any kind of breath back. Rumpled hair and swollen lips, flushed all the way down his neck. Eyes dilated completely black. "She has nothing to do with this."

"I don't think she'd agree." He can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. A few quick tugs of clothing, he could be bent over the rail and dear God--God..... You never, he thinks toward the other Lex, you never, you fucking *idiot*, what the fuck were you thinking?

It's like a hiss in his ear, other Lex's pain. I've never been that brave. Or that stupid.

It looks like Clark might stop thinking again, stepping closer, but the ring of the cellphone at Lex's hip stops him cold. Fumbling, Lex gets the phone to his ear.

"Luthor." 

"There are unexpected difficulties in accessing the information you require."

Lex stares at the ground. Of all the times for the computer to call-- "Do you monitor us at a distance?" Did the computer play duenna? Jesus.

"Yes." Christ. "But I contacted you to request assistance. The databanks I need are not accessible at this time."

Shit and fuck. "And you couldn't figure this out last night?"

"My ability to search for information is limited. With your assistance, however, I think I can discover what you seek."

Christ. "Clark--"

"AI needs you?" Clark looks unsurprised, which makes Lex wonder just how often this sort of thing happens. Frowning, he stares at the ground. "Funny, how it always seems to want one of us when--"

A lot, apparently. "Yeah. I need to get back. I'll call a car from the castle. Stay with Lois and enjoy all this great Smallville ambiance." He's not entirely sure his sarcasm comes through clear enough. He's never happy when he's this hard and no hope of relief in sight. "Drive me to the castle, okay?"

Clark looks rebellious for a second, but beneath the soft blue sweater, he seems to admit defeat, nodding and pulling the keys from a front pocket. Green eyes stare into the ground like he's wishing it would swallow him up. "Lex--"

"We'll talk about this later," Lex lies, knowing they'll never talk about it again. He thinks other-Lex will make damn sure of that. More stupid him "Let's get going."

*****

Lex leans back in his chair. "That is, honest to God, the best piece of bullshit I've ever heard, and I know bullshit. I got out of three murder indictments and several racketeering charges with it."

The AI blinks, like it's completely surprised.

"You want me to hook up your full memory capacity so you can find me information. After Clark handicapped your ass for all that world-conquering nonsense. Just so we're clear."

"Yes."

"Because you've changed. You don't want to take over frail humanity and put Kal at the head of an army of minions to conquer the world as we know it." Lex can't even believe it's *trying* this sort of shit.

"I have explained-"

"No one is that stupid but American juries and children under age three. Maybe. Try another one."

The computer's humming increases, like a swarm of unhappy bees. Not quite attacking, just confused. It's not a good comparison to make--even handicapped, Lex thinks that the AI is perfectly capable of some serious monkey business if it wants. "I would think it would please you. After all, if my calculations are correct, you have less than fourteen hours before you are pulled from this world.

Lex blinks. That much time had passed. "Why do you care?"

"I do not." If ever a computer could sound smug, this one could. "You, however, indicated that the situation on your world was critical."

Lex takes a slow breath. "It is."

"If this is true, you would do anything to discover the information that would save it. I have that information."

"I don't know that."

The computer hums. "That is a risk you must take. But your 'Fortress', as you call it, told you that it narrowed the search to worlds that had faced and survived it? We did both. The information is here. Will you risk the existence of your world?"

It's *good*. As Solomon and the babies as he's ever heard. Like Dad, maybe. Lex stares at the screen, like it's an actual face that he can read. "Why should I believe you?"

"Do you have a choice?"

Lex doesn't like when a computer is right. 

*****

The first Lex he'd taken over had been pretty passive, in retrospect. Lex fights down nausea and shaking hands, prone beneath the computer's main circuit board.

Half the problem is that to do this, he needs that other-Lex's memories--he knows shit about the AI, but this Lex, and this Clark, had disabled this. He needs the information, and accessing that brings the man, who isn't happy.

Who makes it all complex and hard and drops tools, clouds his mind with images he doesn't need--Lois, smiling and happy, Clark, brilliant as a supernova on his wedding day, the Kents' joyful faces, his own perfect, flawless lab and business, the disturbingly stable marriage to Helen, this world that he loves. This *world*--where LexCorp saves a million lives a year. Where Lex is--someone else.

Someone that he might have wanted to be in a different life, at a different time. Power's addictive, but this might have been, too, for a younger Lex, a different Lex.

"Stop it."

The other Lex thinks the AI is lying. Lex is pretty sure it is, too--not about the information, that's all here. But nothing really changes. People don't. Things don't. It wants conquest and it wants Kal to do it, and it wants these things because it's in its nature.

He doesn't even recognize the tools--something with vague phallic symbology that glows bright green that he holds *here*, a tiny piece of what looks like bright purple wire *there*, the movements of his fingers on a keyboard his mind doesn't recognize, but his body does. And every second, that other-Lex, yelling in his head, don't *do* this, you don't know what it did, what it could do, what it did to Clark, how it hurt him--

That stops Lex. But only for a second.

"You don't know what my world is like," Lex mutters, pushing the small tool cart across the room to open another panel. "We need this--"

Then find another way.

"There isn't one." He pulls up the memory of Clark, shoving it into the front of his mind. Clark's shriveled body, the glazing of living green eyes into flat and dead. The other Lex is silenced briefly, and Lex is, too.

Christ. That was such a mistake.

"Fuck. Off." Quickly, he starts work. It's becoming easier--and harder to ignore the inner convulsions of the man inside him. In his own way, as driven as Lex, as ruthless as Lex, but infinitely kinder. The capacity to forgive that Lex lost more years ago than he can count. Compromise, respect, understanding, bone-deep fear. Memories of Clark, of a life that could have been.

It's--it might have once been something he'd wanted. "That isn't me. I don't want that." He's not anything like this man, happy to flounder in mediocrity, content playing at a superhero sidekick and always wanting something he only has to reach to take, yet never reaching. "You're a fucking moron. Some kind of fucking *idiot*."

Some things are more important than want I want.

"Bullshit."

Backing off, Lex closes the panel, the cool metal slide invisibly closed in the wall. Wiping his forehead, he glances at his watch. Less than four hours left. Clark's still in Smallville with Lois for the night, and with any kind of luck, Helen won't come home until he's gone and the other Lex can deal with all that confusion.

Don't do this.

"You need a full reboot, from the bottom up," Lex tells the AI. He can feel its hesitation. That will leave not only the basement, but the AI itself, helpless until the restart is complete. "Systematic shut-down of every system, then full start. Do you understand?"

The computer seems to quiver. "Yes."

"Commence shutdown, Authorization Lex Beta Six Three One." Lex takes a deep breath. "Do it."

All the lights go out.

*****

We can still stop this, the other Lex says, and Lex has never been this afraid, not like that, not so filled with terror and anger and soul-deep worry. We can stop this before it even starts.

Lights, along with environmental controls, are run by the computer--Lex should have expected that. The emergency stairs are coded and the elevators are offline. If he wants to risk his neck trying to trip across the room with the other-Lex trying to wrestle control from him, he could probably get in that door and upstairs, where hopefully, there'll be light.

We can still *stop* this. There are ways to keep it offline until Clark comes back. We can fix this. We don't--

"I need this information." Other-Lex is either stronger than the first one, or motivation has a hell of an effect. Lex grits his teeth, pushing his palms into the floor to ground himself. "You don't understand." He lets the images flash, everything he remembers of the blackened landscape of the heartland, the burned remains of Metropolis, Virginia and the not-quite defeat. "It's going to reassemble--"

You'll destroy my world for yours?

Lex closes his eyes. It's so dark, he almost can't tell the difference. "You know how to fight the AI, so you can win. We don't even have hope."

I could have told you. 

But that's a lie, Lex knows it, can feel the lie. This Lex doesn't know. He wasn't part of the Justice League team that went after it, destroyed it, whatever it was--Lex picks up that much from him before drawing back again. It's too easy to get lost there, inside that other mind. He wonders if the AI is going to have any problems pulling him back out of this. "Only a few more hours." Though time becomes weird when you're in perfect dark. How long does a reboot take, anyway?

No idea, other Lex murmurs. It's never been done. Melded into less sophisticated computer systems, it may take a while. We can stop this. It would be easy. Just--

"No."

Lex scratches his fingers into the floor. Too close. That other voice becoming like his own thoughts, clinging to the outside of his skull. He can't risk that. Taking a deep breath, Lex pushes it into silence, piling all of himself on top of it, shoving it so far down to the bottom that he can barely feel the other Lex anymore. The effort leaves him sweating and shaking, his head strangely empty, and that can't be a good sign at all.

"Not too much," he tells himself. "It wasn't too much."

*****

"Lex?"

The voice is faint, far away--Lex jerks himself upright, looking up. The tinny sound tells Lex that Clark is still upstairs, probably wondering why the elevator isn't working.

Pushing himself upright, Lex rubs his head, a headache forming just behind his eyes. No, he hadn't thought that other Lex would give up. Not anytime soon.

"Lex? What's going on?" It won't be long until Clark gets proactive.

"I'm fine," Lex yells up, leaning into the wall. His skin feels like it's buzzing, and hazily, he wonders what that means. No, wait--that's the wall. A low-key vibration that moves from his insteps up his leg from the floor, across his shoulder from the wall. All at once, the lights flash on across the room, illuminating the two uniforms in brilliant white light, and the screen is slowly coming back to life.

Lex drags in a breath. The headache is getting steadily worse.

"Lex? The elevator's offline. What are you doing?"

"Running some configuration experiments," Lex says. The lie's effortless, and he wonders how he thought of it. He can barely think through the pounding. "Just--wait."

"You don't sound okay." Of course, this is the time Clark would get suspicious. Lex makes his slow way to the chair, dropping into it with a deep breath. If there's anything he's supposed to be doing to assist the reboot, the computer's going to have to figure out how to do it on it's own. He's lucky he's still upright.

The slow buzz of his skin is almost comforting, like being rocked. Or a magic fingers bed in one of those highway hotels. Jesus. He could fall asleep right now. He's so damn *tired*.

"Clark--" He cuts off the voice, opening his eyes. That wasn't him. That was the other one. Fuck. *Fuck*. "Don't you dare," he whispers, gripping the armrests with both hands. "I'm too close."

There's no time left. Stop fucking around. This is my world you're destroying!

"I don't have time for this." Leaning onto the desk, Lex focuses his eyes on the screen. From somewhere distant comes the sound of metal being bent into interesting new shapes. "My world needs this--"

You need it. So you can do what you've always done. When Superman's not there to stop you. It will be an easy world to take, won't it?

It can't be healthy to hate yourself, Lex thinks blearily. Not this much.

"That's. Not. Why."

Why? You've changed?

The screen lights up, a maze of equations and vaguely geometric symbols in a trillion bright colors, making Lex close his eyes against it. Somewhere behind him, a metal door squeals, probably torn to pieces by superstrong hands. Lex takes a deep breath, trying to hold back the words that keep wanting to crawl out of his throat. Almost there. Almost--

"Lex, what's going on?" Big hands on his shoulders spin him around, and Lex faces a desperately worried pair of green eyes. "Lex--are you--what's wrong? What happened with the AI?"

"I reinitialized the AI," Lex hears himself whisper. What the *fuck*? His fingers and lips feel numb, like they've been pressed against ice. "I-I'm sorry, Clark, I fixed it, I didn't want--"

Christ. No. Lex tries to pull away from the hands gripping his shoulders. He's got to find out--got to--

"You fixed it." There's something in Clark's voice that Lex can't hope to read, but the hands on his shoulders loosen.

"We can still stop it." Other-Lex isn't quite up to taking the body, but he's doing fine with forcing out the words. The numbness extends up his knuckles and Lex thinks the room is getting brighter. Oh. Oh God. Not yet--

"It's okay." Big hands on his face, looking into his eyes. "Lex. It's okay. Don't worry. I think--"

"I need--"

"Lex Luthor." The computer's voice seems to come from everywhere. "The information you requested." 

Lex turns his head, watching the information fly across the screen, storing it up. Oh. *Oh*. "We need Superman for that...."

"Yes." The AI hums again, then seems to settle down. "What are you orders, Clark?"

Clark grins down at Lex. "So?" 

"You have to--stop it. Before it can--"

"It won't." Gentle arms circle his shoulders. "I told you that things change and you didn't believe me." Clark's farther away by the second. "I grew up, the world still turned, and the AI learned. You never believed me before. Now do you?"

Lex stares over Clark's shoulder at the screen. Superman was needed, kryptonite--Clark had been so close, if he'd lived a little longer, if he hadn't stopped to save Lex--if he hadn't--

"Clark--" His fingers fumble on the soft blue sweater. Everything's in shades of grey. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" The green eyes are growing distant. "Lex, it's okay--"

"If I'd known, it would have been--"

*****

*--different*.

Lex doesn't remember the seconds between waking up in the cubicle and getting to the AI. The sweat-drenched t-shirt is clinging to his skin like saran wrap, and he feels like he ran a few dozen miles carrying half the fucking city of Metropolis. Sticky fingers keep fumble the keys.

"We need--"

The AI is strangely quiet, and Lex finally notices, looking up into the screen. He could draw these equations in his sleep.

"We can't."

Startled, Lex's fingers slip off the keys.

"We don't have Kal."

"You can move me across dimensions. Time--"

"Is infinitely more complex." The hum slows, almost stopping. "If that were all that was required, I would not have chosen this way."

"You are fucking with me." Something drops into the bottom of Lex's stomach, like a stone. "No. You're lying."

"I don't lie." The AI sounds sad. "Time isn't--something that can be touched with impunity. Tampered with. If it were possible--"

"Don't give me that shit. You can go back, get him--I don't care, pull him out--"

"And break the current timeline. This information was discovered as a direct result of Kal's death. Changing that changes the method by which the information was received. We cannot--"

"I know my relativity theory as well as you do."

"You do not understand the consequences."

"You've fucking done it before." An artery pulses in Lex's forehead. "For Lois. Clark did it. I know. I felt it." In the DNA, the bits of Krypton that still lived within his cells, however mutated. "He stopped--something. I *know*."

"And the consequences are still being felt." The AI sounds exhausted. "But this. Continuous loops. A world without a past or a future. What Kal did, I had no part in. Nor would I have."

For a second, Lex honestly thinks that the AI will say, "But..." Because there's always a but. There's always a codicil. There's always another way out. There's always, always, always a loophole. Lex knew that before he learned to walk.

"Time is flexible," Lex says slowly. His head is killing him, and he thinks he'd commit genocide for sleep. In his own bed, his own room, secure and safe, warm and dry. The world still alive outside, Superman still a menace to his sanity, and the Justice League do-gooding everywhere he looked. "We don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice." The AI's lights dim, and Lex wonders if it ever gets tired. If it even understands the concept. "We will try the next dimension--"

"And find out that we always need Clark? Unless I want to shove the thing into another world, and you shot down that idea." Lex's memories are shifting--that other Lex, who knows how to disable an AI. Lex remembers enough. Not all of it, but enough for the threat. A bargaining chip. It can move time--it all but admitted it. It just *won't*.

"You'll have Kal back." The raw sound of his own voice surprises him. "He'll be back, safe and sound. Your duty is to him. Last son of Krypton and all that bullshit. He was your charge, yours to care for and to guide and protect. He's dead, and you failed. You can fix that."

Like talking to a wall, or to Dad, or a fucking computer.

"You *have* to." His head's never felt like this. Like something inside is trying to burrow out with dull claws. "You have to do this because there's no other way."

"One change here could destroy this reality. Seven point six nine percent of dimensions experienced temporal flux--"

"I. Don't. *Care*. Do it. Bring back Clark. *Bring him the fuck back*." Thick warmth slips down his upper lip. Lex reaches up, touching, fingers coming away bright with new blood. Wiping it away, he grabs for the keyboard. "He knew how to override. So do I." That other Lex, who he touched too much. The memories of that place are wrestling for dominance in his head--a car and Belle Reve and Clark, getting him out, never to know how it felt to be electrocuted because you knew too much. "I'll fucking cripple you to get to your databanks, I'll--" With control of time, he could change anything, even that. Something snaps inside his head with a warm gush of blood, and Lex's eyes freeze on the screen, fingers still trying to reach the keyboard even as vision goes dark. "I have to fix it. I have to--"

Christ, he has to.

* * *

[interlude two](/web/20090715194808/http://seperis.illuminatedtext.com/smallville/landscape5.html)


	5. Interlude Two

He's been in the infirmary before, he thinks--there's a familiarity to the quiet drones that wander around him like bees, intent on their personal tasks.

Everything tastes ice-fresh and sterile, like a very cold operating room. He knows operating rooms too well. "What's the prognosis?"

"You absorbed too much of the other," the AI says softly. Lex nods, barely moving his head. It feels like it will float away if he's not careful. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit." Not moving seems like a good idea.

"You suffered a cranial hemorrhage. Your neural centers were unable to process the information you received from the other Lex Luthor. I was able to repair the damage."

The other Lex isn't here, but his memories, like the memories of long-ago dreams, linger. Lex can touch them if he tries. Rolling onto his side, he closes his eyes, letting them flash like lightning across the surface of his mind. One holds fast, sharp and painful as an unhealed wound. "Clark tried to save me."

"He did that often." The AI doesn't sound like it's censuring him, but there's a lot of ways to get disapproval across. "Sometimes, he wasn't sure of the right way. But he never stopped trying, even when you did."

"I don't need this." He doesn't. But he's stuck here, body aching, head as light as a feather, with the world falling apart around him. "We need him."

"We will find another way." The AI sounds very sure. "Tampering with time isn't only a question of destroying what is and what will be, but of destroying what was. Of a thousand things that could be changed, one thing only can collapse a world. Many have tried. And they have failed."

"Died?"

"Many times. They died and lived and died, only to come back and live again. Never to move forward or back. Never to move on. Never to change."

Lex shivers. "We could do better."

"We tried. And we did not."

Lex doesn't want to know how it knows that. Eyes closed, Lex curls into the blanket. "Am I going to be okay?"

"Yes. I warned you of the dangers of merging too closely with the one already in that skin."

"You were evil and tried to conquer the world." It's petty. Lex knows it. Opening one eye, he sees a drone hesitate beside him. Just a fraction of a second, but enough. Closing his eyes again, Lex smiles. "They handicapped you so you couldn't do it again."

"I would not." It sounds offended.

"You did. But I fixed you." Lex can touch those memories without pain. Clark's sure smile, the AI, and frantic, confused other-Lex. "I did it, even though I knew what it was To get what we needed to know." Lex laughs softly. "Clark--Clark wasn't worried at all."

"I would not attempt conquest of the world." The AI sounds horrified. Lex almost giggles. Christ, he must be high.

"Clark said everything changes." Rolling onto his back, Lex slits his eyes open to stare at the metal ceiling so high above him. "He said it had changed. He wasn't even afraid. I was. He was." It would be too easy to blend them together. Lex forces the other memories back, focusing on his own. "He said--"

"Everything does change. That's the nature of life, of living." The AI's voice softens. "I will have nourishment brought to you. We can attempt another jump in six point two hours, once your body is fully recovered."

Lex grins sleepily. He could use some rest. "For once, my mutated healing didn't help much, did it?"

"If you were not what you are, you could not have survived the first jump." Lex opens his eyes on the ceiling again. "You did not know?"

Lex wants to sit up. Wouldn't have survived. "Did you know--"

"No human could do what you are doing, Lex Luthor." The AI sounds so fucking *amused*, like Lex's stunned silence is the height of comedic relief. "Rest. I will contact you when the next jump is prepared."

The hum's gone, and Lex almost gets up--Jesus Christ, what the *hell*--but exhaustion is leaking out of every pore in his body. In that other world, he hadn't slept at all. His eyes close on their own, shutting him into the darkness of his own mind.

He's not sure he wants to dream.

*****

Clark's room is just like every other room in the Fortress. A small, sterile bunk, a plain closet, stocked with Clark's version of civilian clothes; a few misguided attempts at suits, a few t-shirts that had to be as old as Clark, a few pairs of blue jeans. Old work boots, well-worn. 

"Grieving is not a weakness," the AI says softly. Lex barely bothers to be annoyed that he's being monitored. Apparently, all that rearrangement of his neural pathways needs to be carefully watched for the next few hours Or maybe the AI is making sure he doesn't try and play with its connections anytime soon.

No past and no future, an endless loop. Lex doesn't want to imagine that. His life is close enough to that without temporal assistance.

"It's a weakness," Lex answers, stepping away from the closet. An painfully impersonal room for a deeply divided man. Maybe he never knew who he was well enough to decorate. "It's not just one I ever knew how to give up." Sometimes, he can hear Lionel in his head, a distant lecture on Luthors and their place. He's not a Luthor, less of a Luthor than any before him. He's Lex, but that doesn't seem like much, here and now. "I never knew how to give him up, either."

"Neither did he." If ever an artificial voice could be gentle, this one is. "He always thought, in the end--"

"That we'd fix things?" Lex almost laughs, but the sound never quite makes it to his throat. He can't even imagine that. "I wanted him dead.

"That world--" Lex breaks off. Only now is it really sinking in. "We were friends. Partners." Not more than that, but more than he'd ever believed he could really have. "For a little while--for a second--I wanted that. I hated that I couldn't have it. That I never had the chance--" Lex stops. "I never knew he tried to save me. And that he risked everything for that."

The AI's hum is comforting now, a blanket of shimmering, glittering sound. Lex closes his eyes. "Things might have been different, if I'd remembered."

"They were different."

Yes, they were, weren't they? "I'd love to know why I didn't kill Helen, though." He just doesn't think any version of him is okay with homicidal wives. "It's--I want to know. But I don't have enough of him to--" Find that. And there's a danger in that, the AI doesn't need to tell him. Lose too much of himself touching that other, letting those memories become too real. Forever uncomfortable in his own skin, out of place. He feels like that now; he doesn't need more of it. "It felt like me, though."

"They are you. In an infinite variation--"

"A thousand monkeys typing for a thousand years. I get it. Anything is possible. " But that one was too--too close. "I--how did we get to this?"

"We?"

Right. Lex grins, walking to the narrow bed, sitting down carefully to spare his head the ache. "I--this isn't what I would have chosen. For him. For me. I never wanted to be his enemy."

"No. But you wanted power more than you wanted friendship. His secrets. You wanted everything. And no one can give that."

"That's what I *am*. I want--" Lex stops, not liking the tenor of his thoughts. Too much of that other Lex, maybe? He doesn't want to think like that. "Other people could. Why not me?"

"You wanted what the world could not give." 

Lex shakes it off. "He wasn't here much, was he?"

"He was here often." The AI pauses. "What is it you want to know?"

He's not sure. "I--"

A low murmur of sound crawls up Lex's spine, just above audible range, inaudible nails running down a chalkboard. Lex shivers without knowing why, head turning to the door. "What was that?"

"The creature is beginning to reassemble itself."

Instantly, Lex is on his feet--why, he has no idea, it's not like he can go out there and fight it himself. Mouth dry, he licks his lips, trying to form some kind of plan. "How long--"

"A few days." Only experience lets Lex know the AI is tense. He's already running out the door, bare feet chilling quickly on the icy metal--why hadn't he grabbed some shoes? Skidding into the main room, Lex looks at the viewscreen, fixed where the creature had been destroyed. "I don't--"

"It is beginning at the molecular level."

"You can sense that?" Of course it can sense that. The thing, whatever the fuck it is, is built from Kryptonite, created in it, lives in it. Clark had known, too, in that weird, sixth-sensey way. He'd known instinctively how to stop it. He could have, Lex thinks. If he'd just not stopped for Lex.

"Fuck," Lex murmurs, staring at the screen. "We can't do this without him."

"We will find a way."

"In a few days? You grounded me twenty four hours this time." Granted, for surgery. "I can't take that long--we have to get this right on the next jump." Lex's eyes shy away from the chamber as he starts tapping into the keyboard. "Get it warmed up. We're doing this now."

"You are not fully--"

"It won't matter if it reassembles and we don't know how to stop it." Lex steps back, looking at the equations on the screen. At this point, he almost thinks he can read them himself. "Let's do this."


	6. Belle Reve

"Mr. Luthor will string us up if we don't find him." That's a voice to the left--cranky and too young. Lex guesses at twenty at most. Flashes of glaring white in the dark, big obvious beacons of danger. Lex supposes that asylums aren't really equipped to understand the concept of subterfuge.

And God, this body feels different.

It's not just the weight, or lack thereof--Lex's metabolism burns fast, he's known that for years. It's the habitual feeling of it. He's not coming close to getting enough to eat, even by his standards. The grind of hunger that the body's used to, just beneath the drugged apathy that keeps pulling him back down. The twitching, like a junkie, and the way he can't quite focus his eyes, and the nausea riding beneath it all like a constant reminder. Of what, he has no idea, and no real desire to find out.

The other Lex might not be here at all, for all the awareness Lex has of him. And that's not something Lex wants to think about too much.

Belle Reve's like he remembers it in his worst dreams, but strangely smaller, more familiar. Palatial grounds for the very wealthy to forget their embarrassments within. Lex isn't sure what it means that he's here, but he has a few guesses that he doesn't think bear close examining until he's the fuck out of here.

"He can't go far. The tranquilizer--"

"That was thirty minutes ago!" Rough search of the brush, too close. Lex smells burning leaves. Tazer. Fucking fantastic. Health care in the United States needs addressing in a serious way. "He can't go far. Not with the anklet."

Lex glances down. No anklet. A glance at his hands, broken nails and bleeding fingertips, confirm. This Lex got that thing off as soon as possible. Very bare feet stare back at him. He needs shoes.

And some other clothes. Assuming, that is, that he can get out of here.

Pushing out of the crouch, Lex looks around. No one too close. This bush doesn't offer anything close to adequate cover. But then, the grounds of Belle Reve aren't made for hiding, either.

And he's got to be able to stick to a single thought if he's going to get out of this in one piece.

His body's not sure how to respond to his signals, like inertia in action. A deep sense of comfort in not moving. A generalized sense of well-being in just staying. Being caught second to the spurts of euphoria that keep cycling in his system, like he just took a few hits of E. Anger beneath, so ingrained that he barely notices it. An urge to just *run*, fuck who would see him. 

All of them dangerous. Lex finds himself in the novel position of wishing that the other Lex would surface, at least long enough for Lex to figure out what he needs to do. Besides get away. That one's as obvious as a billboard.

Those tazers just don't look like something he wants to experience.

"I found tracks!"

Holy fucking shit.

Lex moves, forcing his body to go with it by will alone, hating the hesitation, the untrained muscles and how they don't respond like they should. Will counts for a lot, but will can only go so far. An ungraceful scramble to a better group of bushes and trees, arranged in a variation of an English garden. Ignoring the scratch of branches and shrubbery, Lex burrows inside, glancing once to see if he left tracks. His night vision is for shit.

Right now, he's only dealing with the hospital staff and security. If they call in the police--

God *dammit*, would it kill the AI to send him in at a time he can get some fucking context?

Lex holds his breath at the sound of feet, too close. Too fucking *close*.

"Where the fuck *is* he?" Somewhere, something hits a tree with a lot of enthusiasm. Lex almost smiles, but it takes everything in him to control the twitching. Like every muscle in his body's being shot with electricity every second. "Christ. Make the call."

"There's no fucking way I'm telling Lionel Luthor that we lost his son." Booted feet come into view. Lex follows the lines of grey and white up between the leaves, catching sight of the tazer on one hip. A gun, too. Standard issue in asylums these days?

And *Dad*?

A jerk of his arm ruffles the leaves. Lex freezes, or tries to. The body pivots, and Lex watches the boots close in.

"Jared--"

When Lex was a child, his dad took him on safari in Africa. A parody of father-and-son bonding with some kind of subtextual lesson in leading men, or being an ass--Lex was never sure, before or after. They'd been somewhere on flat plains, watching a herd of some form of antelope wander through. All flat and golden and lifeless.

Then not. One second, quiet antelope, then a bloody body on the ground, herds running in confusion, and a cheetah ripping apart its prey.

As metaphors go, Lex got it loud and clear. There's no such thing as safe.

Jared probably never heard his name called. Lex's body moves, like he's nothing but a passenger, vague echoes of that second universe and that Lex forcing past, but this is almost effortless. Mindless anger reaching so deeply that Lex can't even begin to control it, pushing through his body, and for a second, Lex tries to stop it.

Like standing in the path of a tornado.

The crack of the man's neck echoes like a broken twig, and Lex comes back to himself with the body falling with a soft thump to the ground, rich joy spiraling through his body like something alive. His hands still shape the man's chin, the effortless twist, like pulling the head off a doll. Easy and familiar. He's done this before. He's liked this before. He wants to do it again.

"Leo?"

Christ.

Lex breathes out, taking a step back. The loose hospital pajamas expose him as thoroughly as their hospital whites, but he can't quite make himself move. The haze of rage recedes like the tide. Lex clenches his hands to control the tremors.

There may be a very good reason someone (Dad) locked him up in here.

"Leo?"

Not important. Getting away. Important. The rest will have to wait. Forever, if possible.

"Leo?"

Lex turns his head. Below the sounds of Jerod's voice, he hears the unmistakable sound of traffic. Reaching down, Lex strips the tazer and gun, tucking them into the elastic of the pants. A second, then Lex gets the shoes and the ID card as well. A wallet's in the back pocket. A set of keys. A leather case that looks just about the right size for a hypodermic needle or five.

The bullets in the gun aren't blanks.

"Leo? What the hell are you doing?"

Too close. Lex turns his head to the highway and starts to run.

*****

Other Lex still isn't poking his head into anything but the body. Lex isn't sure what to make of it--one second, he's himself, all present and accounted for; the next, that other presence, barely thinking, but *doing*. Like it's practiced for this, dreamed of this, knows every move it will make, every contingency planned for, every possibility covered. Flagging down a motorist and shooting him up from something in that leather case, rolling him into a gutter. That's--almost prosaic. His body doesn't know stick shift anymore, though, so Lex is left to do that.

This isn't anything like the last two times. Almost more unnerving than anything else.

A few dozen miles, a hour straight, and Lex has no idea what direction he's going, and that's a problem. Mindlessness doesn't work as a plan. At least, it shouldn't, but in this case, Lex is beginning to wonder. Right now, that other Lex isn't anywhere. And the twitching is getting worse.

There are old hypodermic tracks up one arm, shaded bruising in yellow-brown and recent red-purple. Deep black on his forehead. Someone tried to knock him out? He almost doesn't blame him. He's killed before, but it's never been like that.

He's never *wanted* it like that.

"What the *fuck*?" Glancing at the rearview mirror, Lex notes the lack of traffic. A side road comes up, dusty and small--farm road. Good enough. Turning awkwardly, Lex just makes it, somehow surprised by the fields of corn around him, waving high and sickly green.

This is how he always remembers Smallville.

He pulls over, jerking the car into park before letting himself lean into the steering wheel.

Fuck.

There's no way he can be expected to figure out what the hell is going on. Though he's going to go out on a limb and say that Lionel's habit of imprisoning unsatisfactory sons in insane asylums has gone unchecked for a while. The body feels completely wrong, and he's starving, but the thought of food makes him sick. And not just because he just killed a man like he would an animal.

Though that's not helping.

Leaning back, Lex looks at the seat beside him. A briefcase from the former occupant of the car, a laptop still in its case. The ID from the hospital. One gun, one tazer, one pair of shoes. He should have taken the driver's clothes, but they'd been an impossibly large size for this emaciated body. Lex doesn't want to look in the mirror again. Nothing living should look like that.

He needs *food*. Adrenaline and insanity only get you so far.

Unbuckling his seat belt--and God, it's funny, he remembered to *buckle up*--Lex gives the car a quick once-over. A package of Doritos, a bottle of generic water, and what looks like a second change of clothes in a bag. Still too big, but beggars, in this case, can't be choosers. A cell phone.

Lex wonders if there's anything left in any account he would know about or be able to access. He'll go with a no on that one.

What the hell is he supposed to do?'

"Just once, I'd like it easy," Lex mumbles. Christ. He's talking to himself now. His head's still echoingly empty of whoever usually resides here, but that's okay. Lex may be crazy enough for both of them. Flexing his hands on the wheel, Lex remembers the simplicity of murder, pulsing between his fingers.

Damn. *Damn*.

"So where am I supposed to *go*?" There isn't anyone Lex can think he'd trust; everyone is suspect. Putting the car in drive, Lex's mind flips through place and people one by one. Every universe is different, but they all remain the same. Ever since the day Lionel had cut him off, playing Lucas against him, Lex had made sure he always had access to at least one account somewhere.

He has a laptop and a cellphone Between the two, he thinks he can figure something out. 

*****

There are a lot of ways to be untraceable, but they all require money. Eventually, someone is going to find that guy and work out who he is, even without a wallet. Whatever Lex gave him won't last forever. So he can't use the credit cards. The cash is okay, but he needs a ground line to access the account he needs. Assuming Lionel didn't find it.

And that's assuming a lot.

Still, though, like all unnatural creatures and parents, Lionel had strange blind spots. He wouldn't empty accounts if he never thought Lex would be able to access them.

The cheap hotel is the kind that never notices who stays, and the front desk clerk is stoned out of what passes for his mind, barely counting the money Lex shoves across the counter, tossing a key, all without his eyes leaving MTV2's classic showcase. The soundtrack of Lex's life is a disturbingly appropriate cover of Father Figure by a thin boy who ogles the camera like he expects to fuck it.

Dear God, he's tired.

The room is cheap carpet and a bed that Lex tries not to think of too much before sitting down. The suit is too big and keeps threatening to slide off his hips. Stripping the cheap cotton coat, Lex opens up the laptop and sets the cellphone down beside it.

He needs to stop and think, though.

Theory; he's in Belle Reve. From the feeling, this has been a long term stay. Inner Lex seems to be confined to specific moments, but Lex can't tell if it's the drugs that are keeping the other Lex so--invisible--or something else. If it was the drugs, wouldn't he be feeling it too? 

And he is, but he's been high, he's mainlined the kind of shit that kills other people. Psychotropics can fuck with his head, but they can't be worse than the fact he's been jumping realities for over a hundred and six hours.

But that lack of inner Lex--that just feels wrong.

Taking a deep breath, Lex tries to relax. His muscles want to cramp up in a variety of unpleasant ways, and the idea of getting very drunk has a certain charm. 

"Focus, Lex."

Focus, Lex. One, keeping free long enough to figure out how the hell whoever defeated that thing in this universe did it. After that, it's up to whatever passes for him in this universe. Though Lex doesn't think the odds are good, not with this man.

Christ, where *is* he?

Lex curls his fingers into the blanket, closing his eyes at the next surge of restlessness; the twitching's become worse. Jesus. Withdrawal, maybe? With careful, not very steady fingers, he unzips the case. Neon colors and pale ambers and clear fluids, symbols he doesn't recognize, but his body knows kryptonite when he sees it, even refined and diluted. It should be a surprise, but it's not.

This is Dad, after all.

Closing the case back up, Lex lays back. Even his worst hangovers never last long. His body knows how to deal with them. So. He can survive this. He can survive anything.

*****

Other Lex likes the sound of birds at four in the morning and can't stand the piano. It plays on never ending repeat, and no one believes him when he says it never stops, even when he does. Tranks for sleep that never gets farther than the surface of his mind. Bach at three in the morning would make anyone go insane.

They ask him things. Do you remember? Do you understand? We need to understand you. You can tell us, Lex. We're trying to help you. We're trying to *help you*.

He used to answer, but now he doesn't. They don't want to know if he remembers anything. They want to know if he's forgotten. They want to know if he's as crazy as they want to believe. They want to tell him he's killed people and has to be here to protect everyone. And it may be true.

"I don't understand," Lex says, and that Bach doesn't ever stop, does it? Over and over and fucking *over*. "He wants to make sure--what? That you don't tell he killed his parents? Why the fuck would anyone believe you now?"

You shouldn't be able to feel a shrug like you'd see one. "Not exactly. He wants something. I don't know what. I just know not to tell." 

"About what?"

The smile is sharp.

"I don't--remember."

It's a comfortable room, what Lex would expect that Lionel would order for his son. A bed with modestly concealed restraints. Easy to confine him for the night. The day. The week. The other images move too fast, out of focus, soft and sharp at the same time, but the touch of Lionel's fingers on his cheek burns even now. 

"Why don't you just fucking tell him? This is better?" Dad played Mozart's Requiem after Mother died. Hideously appropriate of him.

"You think he'll ever let me go? Didn't you ever fucking *meet* him?"

"What does he want?"

"He wants. Things." The voice breaks, like someone not used to conversations outside his own head. Choppy and too loud, coded in a way Lex almost thinks he can understand if he tries. "After all, we're a danger to society. We murdered our wife, tried to kill our best friend, God knows how many other denizens of Smallville. Who the hell wants us at large?"

"I'm not you."

"I'm sure thinking that makes you feel better."

This Lex isn't sane. He's nowhere close to sane. The room freezes even with warm sunlight pooling at their feet. Lex stares at the modest bed, the view of the grounds, the quiet tan walls and inoffensive beige tile. A picture of his mother is on the nightstand. There's nothing terrifying here.

"You haven't seen all its secrets." The other Lex is just barely out of view, flickering on the edges of Lex's eyes. Lex isn't sure what to make of this. Extended hallucination from drug withdrawal? Or is his sanity cracking? "There are bodies in the garden and bodies in the rooms. Some of them are even alive, if you want to be technical. Very, very technical."

"You're crazy."

"That's such a relative term. Sanity's overrated anyway." Lex thinks, if he stares, he can see the shrug. "It's so freeing. Not to give a shit."

"There's a dead man on the grounds that would think differently." That joy again. So complete and overwhelming. The room almost dissolves under the force of it. "And you liked it."

The room shivers again. "Come on. You should see the rest. They don't care what I see. Luthor's psychotic son's in no danger of telling. Or anyone believing."

The door opens on a brush of air, and Lex thinks he hears voices. Low and angry, hurt and confused. Terrified. Unhappy. This Lex's memories. Somewhere, the AI is telling him the dangers of this, of coming too close, absorbing so much, but it's a whisper like all the others.

The hall is cream-washed, wallpapered in soft, muted colors. "It's easier on our sanity. Primary colors make us excitable." A low laugh chases the words. "Everything makes us excitable."

The view through the first door stops Lex cold. The room twists, like watching a movie, reassembling itself in icy white, so cold Lex's teeth want to chatter. But they don't. "Ryan's dead."

"You're sure of that?" The door pushes all the way open, revealing shining medical equipment, stainless steel and chrome. The body on the bed is the adult Ryan never became. "Brain dead. Like I said, we have very loose standards on what's considered alive here."

"How--"

"The best medical care available. That's what you told him, right? And then to spend those last days with him. You told him that, too. I bet you didn't tell him that comas can be forever." The dark hair is shaved to a stubble. Thick wires protrude from his scalp. An IV drips sluggishly into one arm.

"Ryan *died*."

"Miracles of defibrillators and kryptonite. Dad knew. He couldn't bring him all back, but he didn't need all of him." There's amusement in that voice. Pity, too. "All he needs is a heartbeat and viable brain tissue."

"He's not--not--"

"Come on."

Lex drags his eyes away. Another bright room, a glimpse of grown women gathered around a pile of beheaded dolls, stark in too-long hospital gowns that graze their knuckles, pajama bottoms rucked up their calves. Bitten nails on small, chapped hands reaching like vines for more. A glimpse of wild eyes. Jodi's skeletal fingers. Amy's wide, mindless smile. Alicia. Emily. A flash of dark hair and a honey-skinned face. "Lana."

"Want to know why he wants her?" A twist beheads another doll, palm against the tiny chin. It falls like a body in a quiet garden in the dead of night.

No. "This is your--this is your imagination. Your fantasy. Belle Reve wasn't this."

"It was always this. You just don't remember. Sometimes, I don't remember, either." He sounds wistful. "Sometimes, I don't remember anything, even my name."

Lex stops short, staring down a hallway that extends forever. Door after door after door. And Bach in the background. "What the fuck is up with the music? Christ, do your delusions have to be so pompous?"

Lex has never heard a sound like that before, laughter by way of machine gun fire. The sound hurts. "I don't get a lot of visitors. I have to amuse myself somehow."

"Christ." There's got to be a way out of this, but he can't make himself concentrate with that music. With that Lex, who he can't see but can almost see, just ahead, if he looks hard.

A hand grabs for his pants, and Lex jumps. It's the stupidest thing, but he thinks he can hear his heart, pounding too loud in the silence; his own breathing, too fast and too hard, like he's suffocating. There's a tiny hand gripping his thigh. "We're going to bring it all down," the girl says, blue eyes looking into his. "All down. He promised."

"Not now, sweetheart." The soothing croon brings goosebumps like a rash.

The hand disengages reluctantly, and Lex stares at the smear of a bloody handprint. She pouts, arms crossing over her chest. It should look stupid, a woman crouching like a child, but there's nothing stupid about the eyes that look up at him with cloudy cunning.

"It's your delusion." This is possibly the worse drug trip in history.

"If it was, I'd be a lot less happy when I'm shot up. You know how long it took them to get a sedative that worked? I thought I'd have to mix it myself." The air shifts with a low hum. "But not always. Nothing is always."

Lex has been here too long. He's beginning to see things, and he's not sure what they are. Orderlies pass him in the hall like sterile ghosts. Every footfall is powdery silent, like walking in snow.

"I have to get out of here."

Lex can feel the grin, sharp on the back of his neck. "I've been saying that for years, but no one's listened. You killed your wife, Lex, you tried to kill your best friend, Lex, he left you here to *rot*, Lex, you think anyone cares if you live or die, Lex?"

How long can this possibly last? And how the hell will the AI pull him out of *this*?

"Clark." 

"That's his name. I--forgot."

Motion far down the corridor catches his attention. Lex tries to focus his eyes, but everything goes blurry, like in a dream, and for some reason, his legs won't work, sinking into the floor like quicksand.

"Did you know--" Whisper behind his ear. The figures are slowly coming closer, a horror movie of deliberate, placid, unending steps. Mindless obedience. Three. One's fighting.

"Dad didn't know our secret until we came here."

Lex sees himself.

Too thin, too pale, that institutional white that turns green under the right kind of fluorescents. Fighting, though, with closed eyes, white straightjacket he's seen in every nightmare. One of them cuffs him as they walk, and this close, Lex can see the old bruises, the bitten lip, blood trickling down his chin.

"This is a hospital." There are limits, there have to be. Even for Dad. "They don't--"

"Lex." They're too close, and Lex tries to move, but his feet are stuck and the walls seem to be getting closer. The body between the two men lifts its head, and fractured blue eyes grab his. It's like being touched. "Oh Lex. You don't know anything at all." They go through him like he's the ghost here, splashing him with a cold like frozen water. 

He can follow--when he doesn't want to, when he'd do anything to be anywhere else, and that other Lex fights, but not really, all rote, like he knows that no matter what he does, he'll end up there anyway. "It's not whether I win," he says, twisting his neck around to smile. Lex watches blood drip down his chin, staining the immaculate white of the straightjacket. "It's that I fight at all."

Another hospital room, like Ryan's, but doctors this time, with sharp instruments and sharper curiosity. Lex thinks he recognizes a few from LexCorp.

"I know them." But his mouth won't form the words. 

"There's a lot you can do with a person who never gets sick." Lex watches as he's strapped down, with the efficient, indifferent ease of long practice. "There's so much you can *learn*."

Lex's back presses into a door that's no longer there. He has to *watch* this. The jacket's discarded on the floor, and Lex stares at the network of fine scars criss-crossing his torso. The unmistakable lines of a vivisection. An appendectomy. Heart surgery. Liver transplant. They can't be there, they *aren't* there, Lex has seen this body, knows what his own can do. "Those--"

"Think of them as symbolic." 

Lex shudders, the wall behind him solid, as if there'd never been a door. He wants out. He wants out *now*.

"Why?" 

A mask is placed over the open mouth, and he bucks against the restraints. Blue eyes blaze hot for a second, and Lex watches a needle slide into the back of his neck. A scalpel cuts a line across a bare stomach. There's no way to stop seeing.

"Why?"

One of the doctors turns, and Lex stares into his own eyes, dancing above a surgical mask. "Why not?"

*****

He's aware of the touch almost as soon as he feels the bed.

Instinct lunges him to the floor, and his body knows *this*, knows no touch is good touch, scalpels and needles and bright, plastic-lipped smiles. We want to *help you*.

"....trying to help you!"

The gun is in his hand and pointed the direction of the voice. It takes long seconds to recognize the figure on the bed, and it doesn't inspire him to drop his weapon, though he doesn't know why.

"Clark."

Clark's--himself. Flannel and jeans and too-green eyes, like a forest in summer. Not moving, either, and Lex is glad. He's not sure he can control the finger that wants to pull the trigger like it wants air to breathe.

The words that grind between his teeth aren't his. "You left me there."

All Clark's color vanishes. "I--Lex...."

No. *No*. "Where are they? Are they here?" There's nothing left of the other Lex now, and it's profoundly disturbing. Like a mist that clears at dawn. Lex shakes his head, surprised by the realization one hand is shaped over his stomach. Holding Clark's eyes, Lex pushes up the shirt, touching smooth, unscarred skin, feeling the bone beneath too easily. "I don't scar."

"Not since the meteor shower." Clark looks awkwardly at his own knees. "I--you remember me."

The thing about a gun is, you have to use it or put it up or it just starts feeling stupid. Lowering it, Lex flicks the safety back on, noticing Clark's breath of relief. "It's not like it can hurt you."

Panic's funny. Clark's mouth opens and shuts soundlessly. "And the insane thing? May work other times. It doesn't mean shit now. So save the denials of what you are for someone who cares." Standing up, Lex frowns at the dampness of his clothes. "If you're not here to take me back--"

"I'm not. I--I wouldn't--" Clark's horror is real, but so are Lex's memories. "Your dad wouldn't ask that of me."

So much can be discovered by what someone doesn't say. "But he asks other things?" The strong jaw clamps shut. Lex wonders what Lionel used to buy Clark's compliance . A few threats against the Kent family? Lana? A rock or two? "So you're Dad's most interesting hired gun?"

"I--don't. I'm not." Clark doesn't look at him. "It's--Lex." Lex doesn't want to look--there's too much raw in him, from those images. That's other Lex, too close under his skin. It's got to stop. He can't fucking *afford* that. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." Lex fixes his eyes on the laptop on the bed, the phone that will get him the ground line he needs. "Fought any really freaky robots lately?"

Clark frowns, shifting on the bed, eyeing him like--like an escaped mental patient. It's getting silly, sitting here on the floor with a gun in his lap, like there's an actual chance he's going to use it. Pushing against the wall, Lex ignores the way his head spins and forces himself straight, tucking the gun into his pocket. It's not safe, but then again, neither is this world.

"It's not on the news yet." Clark glances at the silent screen of the television. "I--it took a while to find you. I'm not sure--"

"What? You're here to *help*?" He's blaming Clark for this? Lex closes his eyes, pushing off the wall, finding the bed by touch. Clark won't hurt him. Even this Lex knows that. Shifting up the bed, Lex leans back against the headboard. "Why are you here?"

"I can't get into Belle Reve." The look on Clark's face is stark. "I've tried, Lex--I tried when I knew--when I found out--but I can't even walk the grounds. I swear--"

"I don't have time for this." How the hell is he going to find the information he needs? He can't take Clark Kent's apologies. He's not even sure he deserves them. "I--need information."

Clark nods, leg curling closer. The green eyes look very old, older than anyone Lex has ever seen. The hunched shoulders are different, too, the way the dark head bends, green eyes not quite able to meet his. All the thousand things that Clark lost with his adolescence, vivid in the slumped body. "I can do that. I can--" Clark stops, looking away. "I don't know--I can't ask you to trust me. But I'm not here to bring you back to Lionel."

Lex nods shortly. His body feels wire-fine, fragile, like a good wind could break him. There's an ancient duffle bag by the door, and Lex, for the first time, thinks he smells food. "What did you bring?" His stomach turns over at the thought, all attention on those bags. *Food*.

"What I thought--what you might need." Clark moves off the bed in hurried, clumsy motions that don't mesh with any of Lex's memories. Going on his knees, Clark unzips the bag, and for a second, Lex's hand gropes for the gun.

They're not even Kryptonite *bullets*, for God's sake.

Clark comes back to the bed, dumping the contents for Lex to look at. Clean clothes--they look like Clark's, actually, worn jeans and a t-shirt, a baseball cap, even underwear. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A bar of soap still in the box. Bottles of water. A bag from McDonalds. Lex's stomach rolls again. *Food*. 

The last item gives him pause. Reaching out, Lex picks up the lead box, turning it between his fingers. Lifting the lid, he winces at the flash of green light, but is completely unprepared for the rage inside at the sight.

This Lex *know* this, knows it in ways that Lex himself does not.

Lex closes it, not looking at Clark, setting the box aside with carefully steady hands. The smell of McDonalds is like ambrosia and petite cut filet mignon all at once. His only hope is that he takes the time to chew.

"Why that?" After the fries. Has fast food always been this good? 

"Eat slower," Clark says, looking worried. Big hands are folded in his lap, as non-threatening as six-something feet of alien man can be. "I wanted you to know I--I'm not here to hurt you."

"How'd you find out I was gone?"

Clark's eyes fix on the metal box for a second, then flicker up. "I heard you."

The last fry stops halfway to Lex's mouth. "You--"

"I can't come on the grounds. I can't get in the building. But I can--listen, sometimes." The stark look on Clark's face makes Lex look away. There's nothing he can think to say to that. "I had to move the guy whose car you took. He'd been found already by one of the orderlies. I thought you needed more time."

Lex looks up. "Did you kill them?"

"N-no." The green eyes go back down. "But they won't--be able to do anything. For a while."

Lex nods slowly. There are a lot of ways. Hell, Clark could have flown them to a deserted island for all Lex knows.

"You didn't kill your wife. Lionel--used that. After. Her disappearance. For a reason to keep you there."

Lex's fingers go numb on the hamburger; lettuce oozes over his skin, lubricated by secret sauce down to his wrist. He licks it away. Maybe he's not as hungry as he thought he was. "That, so far, was the only good thing I had to think about." 

Clark's eyes, fixed on the bed, don't move. The awkwardness is becoming worse, and Lex isn't sure he can possibly deal with this along with everything else.

"Clark." Clark looks up, too fast, dark hair falling in his eyes. "I--don't have a good plan here." An inner stirring of suspicion surprises him, but it vanishes almost as soon as it appears, leaving Lex feeling strangely empty. The images from the other Lex's mind still have the power to make Lex shiver, but they're easy to push aside. Now, anyway.

"I--think I have something. I mean, if you can trust me." Clark hesitates. There's nothing familiar in that--even adolescent Clark wasn't like this. "I--your dad's expecting you to come straight to LuthorCorp to kill him. You--that's kind of been your thing." Lex isn't surprised. "You--I thought I'd take you to Smallville."

"Smallville?" What does it say, that no matter the world, it always comes back to the beginning? "You're kidding."

"You--your dad won't think you'd go there. Not with me. Not with anyone. But--but especially not with me." A dark flush extends through Clark's cheeks. Against the pale skin, it looks like sunburn. "I--you don't have any reason to trust me--"

"But I don't have anyone else that's even tried." Taking a last bite of the Big Mac, Lex sets it aside, wiping his hands on a napkin. The other Lex isn't even making a pretense of weighing in on the situation, and the truth is, there's nothing Lex can think of as a better alternative. He's got to get out of here, and Clark may be his only option.

"Right. Um. I'll--get rid of the car." Clark stumbles to his feet, backing toward the door. "You can get dressed. And stuff." Get cleaned up. Stop stinking of your own sweat and the hospital from hell. Put on clean clothes. Lex nods to all the points that Clark probably isn't even trying to make, watching him go out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

"It would help if I knew whether I should trust him," Lex says, then sighs. Talking out loud. It's a bad habit. But it's Clark And Lex knows deceit and knows how Clark lies, and Clark wasn't lying. He has to believe that, or he'll go as crazy as Lex, and God alone knows what the AI will manage to drag out of this world.

Shower. At least that will be something he can do.

*****

The other times he's flown with Clark Kent--or Superman, rather--it hadn't been pleasant. Held by the scruff of the neck like a disobedient puppy, handcuffed, or unconscious. None of them made him any more fond of flying than he'd been before.

Clark's gentle, though--careful of windburn and passing debris, which the sky is surprisingly full of. Almost afraid, and Lex wonders at the way Clark touches him, like he's not sure how, like he never touches anyone, like he's never touched anyone before. Too rough sometimes, in that way that's all about awkwardness. It's unreal, and it hurts Lex, though he's not sure why.

The Kent farm is like he remembers from his days in Smallville, though the paint's more worn and the porch seems to have sunk into the ground more than he thinks it used to be. Clark lands them on the front porch, letting go of Lex with quick but reluctant fingers, and it's strange, still, and for some reason, it makes Lex want to stop him. 

A stupid instinct. He can't even be sure why it's there.

Martha Kent, greyer, but still rolling bread on the counter, like it's any day in the world. Lex feels himself freeze in place, but Clark somehow pushes him without touching, and the blue eyes find Lex as the screen door opens, hands freezing on the dough.

The *stupidest*, most inane things occur to him. He's wearing Clark's too-big t-shirt and jeans, rolled up above the loafers he'd stolen from the motorist he'd accosted. There's no reason, but it feels wrong. 

"Lex."

"Mrs. Kent."

The last time he'd seen her--in his world, not the other--she'd been grayer, strong hands clasped as she watched Clark marry Lois. Nothing was left of Smallville but burnt, blackened fields and crumbling stone. Not even trees had survived the thing's attack.

Attack of what, Lex still doesn't know.

Brushing her hands off on her apron, her eyes dart to Clark. Lex wonders what he told his mother. If he told her anything at all.

"I set up your old room," Martha says to Clark, voice too high. Lex watches the rhythmic twisting of her apron, the tension in her knuckles, the tight mouth that bespeaks fear. Of him or of Lionel, he's not sure. Maybe both. "You can--take Lex up."

Yes, wouldn't want the dangerous psychopath in the kitchen. Lex's eyes narrow, but it's not like it's not *true*. Taking a breath, Lex walks to the stairs. Behind him, he can hear Clark's footsteps slowing. If they want to have a mother/son bonding moment about Luthors and their evils, Lex thinks the nostalgia should be indulged in. It's not like he doesn't know where Clark's room is.

Walking into the past is never easy, Lex thinks, freezing at the door. It's been over a decade since he last saw this small room, but it's like nothing's changed. Cleaner than he remembers, the smells of lemon Pledge and floor wax, Windex, strong enough to make him want to sneeze. Immaculate bed, definitely not a Clark thing. But his things haven't moved, like they're waiting for the boy to come home.

Setting the laptop on the bed, Lex turns in a slow circle. The closet's empty, bare of a boy's clothes and shoes. He wonders how Martha feels when she comes in to clean.

"Lex?"

Lex tears his gaze back to Clark, standing awkwardly at the door, like he's waiting for an invitation. Too polite a boy, Lex thinks, almost smiling, but the expression dies before it reaches his lips. "How long?"

"There's nothing on the news yet." Unsettling. Though maybe understandable--Dad might not want anyone looking too closely at Belle Reve, even if it's only as far as looking for a missing son. His own resources should suffice. The question he should be asking is, is Clark one of those resources? 

There's no reason to hide him. If Clark really worked for Dad, Lex would be hog-tied at his feet already. Don't borrow trouble. Or more appropriately, worry about it at a more opportune moment. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, Lex takes a deep breath. "She doesn't want me here."

"She doesn't want me here either." Clark's crooked grin vanishes as he turns away, closing the door like he's shutting out the rest of the world. "Since Dad died, she--likes her privacy." He leans back, eyes on the floor. More than anything Lex wants to ask him about--Christ, so much. But he's on the clock and a Smallville farm isn't going to do him any good at all. "Lex--"

"I have questions." Clark seems to shrivel a little, nodding. "There's a--thing. A mechanical and kryptonite--"

"Xerxes."

Lex blinks. "You call it Xerxes?"

Clark's mouth turns down. "Your father calls it Xerxes. His pet."

Pet? "I'm not sure we're talking about the same--"

"It's an organic machine--built of robotic and organic tissue." Clark's eyes flicker to the window. "I--I don't know who made it, but your dad acquired it a few years ago. When it was--weaker. He's had problems controlling it, outside specific missions he assigns it." Clark gives him a curious look, probably wondering why the hell Lex would be interested in that, considering all the far more pressing matters of freedom and upcoming assassination. "How do you know--"

"I heard something." Christ. He shouldn't be offended that Lionel had managed what he couldn't, but he is. Fuck. Also, apparently, it *wasn't* destroyed here, double fuck. On the other hand, this is Dad. He has contingency plans. His contingency plans have contingency plans. So, thought; get those.

Clark's still watching him, eyes narrowed. "Why--"

"It's nothing." For a few seconds, Lex wonders what Clark would have done with the other Lex, if that's who he had found. There are a lot of nasty possibilities, not the least of which is that even Clark, alien power though he may be, might not be up to handling a clinically insane Lex Luthor, whose grasp on reality included Bach music on nonstop repeat.

It's on the tip of his tongue to mention Ryan. Even now, he's not that cruel. 

"I-what are you planning?" Clark looks innocent enough against the wall, but Lex's instincts don't like the question, and while inner Lex isn't voting, he's pretty sure he doesn't like it either.

And what *would* Lex be planning? It's almost a no-brainer. And exactly what will get him into LuthorCorp. "Kill Dad. Any objections?"

There always, always are. 

Clark opens his mouth, then shuts it tight, an almost audible clatter of teeth. They stare at each other, conversation a distant memory. Inner Lex isn't weighing in, and Clark Kent has never been the best conversationalist on earth.

"Do you need anything?" Clark says awkwardly, shifting against the door. Somewhere downstairs, Lex thinks, Martha Kent is doing dishes with a criminally insane Luthor above her, chatting with her son. 

Lex finds himself looking away. "It's upsetting your mother that I'm here."

"Mom's been different since Dad died. She's--" Clark stops, looking helplessly at the floor. The guilt's thick enough to cut, and there's no one in the room who's qualified to give absolution to anyone. He wonders if Clark would feel better if he knew Lex's crimes in a different world.

Provided that Clark could ever believe him.

"Are you hungry?" Clark says awkwardly, hand on the doorknob. Don't look like that, Lex almost says. No one likes their past coming back to chat with them. I met you a hundred times and it never stopped hurting. You get used to it. You have to. "I can--can see--"

"Yeah." Christ, anything to get him out of the room. Lex watches him leave, and with the door closed, Lex lets himself collapse backward on the bed. His body isn't impressed with all the lack of drugs and the sudden influx of food, and it occurs to him, only now, he has no idea how long he was under. Rolling, he looks at the clock, but eight at night doesn't give him much to work with. It was near dawn when he left the hospital, he thinks--there are faint images of near-dawn greyness on the horizon, and it had definitely been bare pink when he'd taken the car.

So, give or take, fourteen hours since he arrived. He must have been hallucinating for *hours*. Christ. Closing his eyes doesn't seem like a viable idea. He has no idea what will be waiting for him.

"...think I don't know that?" Martha's voice, faint. Lex rolls over, grabbing for a pillow. Kent family angst isn't in the plan. Inner Lex is enough. Inner Lex is more than enough.

"...know it would be this." Clark, softer. Fuck. *Fuck*. "I can't do it again, Mom. I can't. I won't."

"You're my son." Her voice almost breaks, and Lex pushes the pillow into his ears, feeling absurdly six. Very mature of you, Lionel says dryly. Melodramatic like your mother.

And insane, like my father, Lex murmurs back. They don't lock you up for being a sociopath, but if ever there was anyone who deserved the name.... Why did you do that to me? It wasn't about being unsatisfactory, was it? It was about not being you.

"...what are you going to do? If he finds out--"

"I don't care anymore!" Clark's voice breaks through feathers and mental blocks--it probably breaks some sonic barriers, too. "Everything went wrong. This isn't what you and Dad wanted."

"No."

Lex murmurs Latin into the pillow. Planning to kill him or planning to help, he's not sure which and isn't sure he really cares. I don't need this, he tells the blanket. I need information and I need to get out of here. Everything else can go to hell, Clark's angst and all. Just leave me the fuck out of it.

*****

"You don't want him dead?"

Lex recognizes the room with its mirror-wall. Bare, sterile white all around. Humans don't do well with this kind of blankness. Neither, apparently, does Lex. "I'm getting tired of this."

Rolled eyes. Lex doesn't need to see them to know it's happening. "Sorry my life couldn't live up to your expectations. It's not a metaphor. I just thought I'd remind you that you might have been with them a few weeks, but I've been with them for a hell of a lot longer."

"That's obvious." The mirror's a window now, and he can see cheerful psychiatrists making frantic notes. Watching the monkey in the cage. "Any reason I'm here?"

"I'm guessing--and this is just speculation--that coming out of a drug cocktail is just about as much fun as living in one." A room shouldn't feel so full with only one person in it. He may not be able to see him, but damned if he can't feel him. "I can't do this on my own."

Lex spun around. "I'm not here to help you do whatever it is--"

"Kill Lionel."

Lex breathes out. "--you want. I'm here for what I need. Information."

"You can ask him while I'm cutting his throat."

Christ. "No."

Here, grins are feelings, sharp as razors. "I can make this very, very difficult for you. This is my body, my mind. And trust me on this, there are places in it that you really don't want to go."

The other ones hadn't been like this. But then again, the others had been very sane. This one had been constructing his own inner reality for years. Lex turns slowly, watching the psychiatrists again. "How much of this is real?"

"Most of it." The room chills suddenly, and Lex wraps his arms around himself, shivering. "I--don't remember everything. Sometimes, I don't remember anything at all. But I always remember this. This room, this place, this time. I remember him watching me through the glass, even though I couldn't see him. And I remember--" The voice trails off. "You--I can see it, you know. You."

Lex tears his eyes away from the glass. "Me?"

"You. Your--memories."

Shit. Shit. "The AI--"

"Don't tarry," the voice mocks. "The longer you're there, the more you will be affected by the one who is already in that skin. His body will be yours, and with time, his mind as well." Pause. "A warning?"

Fucking *hell*.

"You're really coherent for clinical insanity." The room seems smaller, suddenly.

"I have you to thank for that." The walls shiver. "It's hard to--think. Even now. With you here." Another sharp grin. "It'd be so much easier if you stayed."

If the room was freezing before, it reaches Arctic temperatures now and getting smaller by the second. "No."

"Maybe."

Christ. The AI hadn't warned him what to do if the one he was in wanted him to stay around. "I'm *not* you." His teeth want to chatter. He hadn't known that fear tasted like frozen metal. "No. It wouldn't--you can't--"

"I--think I could. I've been alone a long time."

Dreams have a trigger--you can break yourself out of them. Lex wishes he'd read the New Age crap his secretary was always raving about. Dear God, he could use some help here. Anything. "I'm not you. If I'm here, you stop being you. And you--you can get out of this. Out of this place without me."

"I'm always here." The room swins a little, solidifying back into bent lines and impossible corners.

"Without what they've been dosing you with, it--it'll be better." He doesn't know that. Years. Christ, over a third of his life in this. Almost half. Lex can't imagine it. "Clark can help you."

"He never helps anyone anymore."

That's not something that Lex wants to think about right now. "How would you know? You haven't been in the world for years." No answer, but the room doesn't shrink anymore. Lex wonders if that means anything "I need out of here. There's--"

"I don't control how long the seizures last." There's a smirk in there somewhere--Lex knows how his face looks when he sounds like that--but the bite of uncertainty is worrying. On one hand, great, it's not like this is deliberate. On the other hand, fuck, it's not deliberate. He can't negotiate his way out of this.

And the walls are close enough to touch with his fingertips if he spreads out both arms. The busy psychiatrists are like bees, swarming here and there. "You were in here a lot?"

"Sometimes."

Lex closes his eyes. "I--don't remember." The things that come with the dreams don't count. Lex turns to the glass, reaching out with wondering fingers to touch. Just cold glass. Seeing in but not seeing out. "For a long time, I didn't remember anything about here. No one told me anything.

"Your--in your place, Clark came?"

Lex swallows. A borrowed memory from another man. And it all fits, like he was supposed to know all along. "Surprisingly, yes."

"He never came here." The wistfulness is almost like a physical ache.

"He--wanted to." Lex remembers the look on Clark's face. "He's never stopped wanting to."

*****

He can feel Clark before he opens his eyes. The hand pressing against his forehead in slow strokes, the quick, almost silent breathing, the tension that radiates like heat from his body. 

I'm not who you think I am, Lex wants to tell him, because God, whatever Clark will have to deal with once he's gone, it won't be this. He's not sure Clark can handle it. Hell, maybe he shouldn't even *have* to.

"Lex?" Right. Superpowers. Clark probably knew when he woke up. "You're--back?"

Lex keeps his eyes closed. "Did I go somewhere?" He's aware of aching muscles and a strange taste, like blood. He tests his lip with his tongue and feels the ragged mark of teeth. "I--feel--"

"You were--on the floor when I came in." Lex thinks he should pull away from the touch, but he can't make himself. It's Clark, and this body hasn't been touched like this in years. "I didn't know--your heart--"

Lex raises a hand to his chest, feeling the slightly too-fast rhythm. Panic, maybe? "Just the drugs working out of my system." He's cold, and it's not the room. *Years*. Locked in there, in that place, in his own mind. Clark's so close, warm and alive, no latex gloves or sheets, restraints or the thick cloth of the straightjacket. He's turning into Clark without meaning to.

He almost expects Clark to pull away, but the hand on his forehead slips down, a slow curve around the back of his neck, curling over his shoulder, down his back. Warm everywhere Clark touches, shifting closer on the small mattress. Soft hair brushes Lex's face.

"Lex." He's never heard his name said like that before. Never felt someone touch him like this--neither of them have. Slow, careful strokes, pushing warmth into his body by the inch. Clark's forehead presses against his, his other hand rubbing slowly larger circles on Lex's hip. It's so warm. So much more real than anything in years.

All these tendrils of that other Lex, reaching out, curious and wondering. There was an entire life before Belle Reve, but it stopped feeling real a decade ago. Stopped being real, too. "I--"

"I was there," Clark says, voice thick. The stroking's rougher, like Clark needs to feel him, convince himself as much as Lex that this is happening. "I--I thought--he let me visit, at first. I thought--I really thought he cared about--about what had happened to you. I didn't know--I didn't until later--" Clark breaks off with an indrawn breath. "I saw what he was doing to you. To all of you. He wanted me to know--"

"Clark--" He's not the one who should hear this. Trying to move is pointless--it feels too good. He needs it like air.

"I--I was a kid, I didn't know what he was doing. I'm sorry."

Lex closes his eyes. "Do you work for him?"

"Not--he has jobs. For me. That no one else can do." Clark's voice cracks. "Just sometimes. When he can't--when he's desperate." Something terrible in that voice; Clark says more with that than the words. "He said it was my choice. But you and Mom and Dad and Smallville were--things could happen he couldn't control, and if I helped, he'd make sure--"

Yes.

"He wouldn't--he'd make sure they were safe, you were safe--"

Yes.

"He asked for things I could do, that--they didn't hurt people. He said--the things wouldn't hurt anyone."

Not in any way Clark would see, when he was younger. Lex feels his hands shake, fingers clenching in the soft flannel of Clark's shirt.

"He said you would get better." Clark's voice twists, and yes, Lex knows Lionel, knows all the ways he can make the impossible reasonable, the ridiculous normal. How easily he could make a Smallville boy believe anything at all. "He said--"

"It's okay."

"It's never been okay."

*"He never helps anyone anymore."*

"Superman," Lex whispers. He feels Clark draw back, looks up into puzzled eyes, the bewildered curve of his mouth. Drying tear tracks beneath the greenest eyes in the world. No recognition at all. 

"What?"

Lex closes his eyes again. No Superman. Just this broken man. "Nothing. I just need to rest."

Clark's hands shiver, like they might pull away. "Do you--do you want me to leave?"

Lex drops his full weight on the arm beneath his head. "No."

*****

So this is the world if his father had been left to pillage at will. On balance, Lex did a better job, but not by much. The fields of Smallville don't look too good, and from the quality of the soil, they won't get any better. Lex knows the land, in that way that his father would never understand. Smallville is home, rejected or not.

Holding the cup of coffee Martha gave him, Lex stands on the porch and stares at the endless, flat greyed earth. "You know, for some reason, I thought I was the worst I could be. Turns out I was wrong."

Talking to himself; sign of insanity. Goes with the gig, he supposes, taking a slow sip. Beneath his skin, the other Lex surfaces briefly. *Coffee*. His father didn't just lock him up, drug him into submission, and use him as a guinea pig. He denied him *coffee*.

"You--seem better, Lex."

Martha's voice is too close, and where the hell are his instincts, anyway? Probably reveling in the best coffee in creation and some unproductive self-pity. There are worse things, Lex tells himself. Clark could be in Armani trying to kill you. Or fuck you. Perhaps both. Or you could be delivering another Kent spawn while keeping your virtue unwillingly intact. Or you could be married to *Helen*.

"The lack of a forced drug regimen does tend to have that effect." Lex tries not to be bitter. One universe over, Clark came back for him. Whatever went so wrong in this one, it started here, somehow. "Did you tell him to leave me in there?"

"We--were afraid." Martha's voice is steady. "Of what you saw. We didn't know what your father would do to you."

"Or what turning away would do to Clark." Taking a sip of coffee, Lex turns around. He wishes, suddenly and ridiculously, that he liked her again. That when he looked at her, she didn't hurt him. He'd do anything, anything at all, to be the twenty-something in Smallville who thought she was everything that was good, everything that was a mother.

The problem with pedestals is that the fall always maims, and not just the person on the pedestal.

"We couldn't have guessed this." Her arms are wrapped tight around her, hard lines around her soft mouth. So much older than he remembers, with a lifetime of bitter guilt. He's not sure he can blame her for resenting his presence in her home. He's a reminder of everything that wasn't supposed to be.

"What does he do for Lionel?"

Martha blinks, eyes flickering to fix somewhere above his shoulder. "He doesn't kill for him. And Clark isn't going to give you back to him."

"But you wish he would."

She doesn't have to say it. Her son against Lex's life; it's not a choice. It's a fact of life. "Are you going to call and tell him? While Clark's gone?"

Temptation isn't temptation unless you want it badly, and she wants to. Buy her son's safety and her own fragile peace. He thinks he might even understand. Clark's her child, and she'd do anything to protect him.

"No." She hesitates, leaning into the open doorway of the kitchen. "No."

"Not even for your son? To save Clark from any more special jobs from my father?" 

"No."

"Why? You did it before. Protected him with my life. Why not this time?"

The tightness hardens into something unfamiliar, and he wonders if he pushed too far; he's only the partially wronged party in this, but then again, that other Lex can't speak in his own defense. Curl up in bed and stay catatonic for a while, maybe.

"It was wrong then, and it would be wrong now."

Lex almost laughs. *Wrong*? "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything." The blue eyes seem to pick up all the light from the kitchen. "We said--we always said that no one would die to protect Clark's secrets. We taught our son that. And we betrayed it, and him. Do you think there's ever a day I don't wake up regretting it? We taught Clark to be afraid--of himself, of other people, of the world. And we sentenced you to--that."

Fragile hands twist in her apron. "We told him not to save you. To protect him. And we taught him to hide. To protect himself. And that's what we made him, and that's all he knows how to do. I watched my son grow up and grow away and let himself be used by Lionel Luthor, because we taught him that. And he never forgave himself."

Sixteen years old. No one should make a life decision at sixteen. "He--he was just a child."

"Yes. He was. He trusted us to teach him right from wrong, and we taught him wrong."

It takes so little to cross over to the wrong side. A second, a minute, a single changed moment.

"Mom? Lex?"

Lex turns, almost spilling the coffee, as Clark materializes at the foot of the porch steps. He looks exhausted, but there's a hum around him that wasn't there before. That glint of immortality, of Superman, even in flannel and jeans. Like waking up after years of sleeping, or years of hiding. "Clark."

Clark licks his lips, eyes flickering to his mother before focusing on Lex. "I know how to get into LuthorCorp."

*****

Lex uses the cellphone to make the connection. Amazingly, it still works. Clark must have put the motorist and the orderly somewhere very far away from civilization and the police.

"What are you doing?" Clark asks curiously from the desk beside the bed. He cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the laptop's screen.

"A few things." Dad is Dad, and he's predictable as hell. It took years to figure it out, and longer until Lex understood the pattern, but it's like breathing now. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different response. Stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting that nothing will ever change. 

Of course, Lionel couldn't have anticipated a sane son, either.

"Those are LuthorCorp's accounts."

"Only the hidden ones." Of all godforsaken places, the Caymans. Switzerland. Bulgaria? Lex shakes his head. So clichéd. "You know that LuthorCorp's assets are very widely distributed, right? He keeps the special project budgets here." Lex makes a few adjustments, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. "Here, for example, is where he funds Belle Reve, while it masquerades as an actual hospital." Lex thinks of the women around the pile of dolls, almost opening his mouth to ask about Lana, then shuts it tight. If that's true, he doesn't want to know. If Clark doesn't know, this would be the worst possible time to tell him. "He doesn't have the liquid capital to possibly back it up if, say, this account vanishes." Which it does, in the blink of a keyboard. Lex stretches both legs, fighting the cramps. It's becoming worse, he thinks clinically. Withdrawal can do that. "Or this one." There are eight, but those are only the ones Lex knows about. "Getting into LuthorCorp will be easy. It's going to be getting out that's hard." For you. Not for me, or for this Lex. I don't think he cares whether he comes out or not. Trying to kill Lionel Luthor is a very rarefied kind of suicide. 

There's satisfaction in killing accounts across the board. The damage won't even be noticed until the next time whoever runs Belle Reve tries to use a credit card or buy a single straightjacket. 

"You want to destroy him?"

Some things are better than death. He hopes the other Lex feels the same way. "Burn him right into the ground." His fingers are shaking on the keys. Rubbing his eyes, Lex focuses his eyes on the clock. Past midnight. "Does he expect you to check in or--"

"No!" Clark's hands tighten on the desk. "He doesn't--not unless he wants something." Clark runs a hand through his hair, green eyes fixed on Lex's hands. "You--you're--"

"Just withdrawal." The other Lex will be a mess when this is over, but at least he'll be a clean and sober mess. Lex pushes the laptop aside, breaking the connection. He can do more later, just for the hell of it, but what he's done will start it. And like all businesses, the very smell of blood in the air will bring every corporate raider and personal enemy of Lionel Luthor circling. It should be enough. "I'll--be fine."

"You don't sound fine." A flash, and Clark's behind him. There's no way to get used to that happening, but the strong hands on his shoulders make that just fine. Hard thumbs rubbing into the rhythmically tightening muscles of neck and shoulders. Soothing. Lex lets the laptop slide neatly to the floor and leans back into it.

Everything changes, the AI says, somewhere in the back of his head. The thing is, Lex *knows* that. It changes, and it does it when you're not looking, and sometimes, it does it at the worst possible moment.

It changes, with slowing hands that stop on his shoulder, and Lex is aware of Clark's warm breath on the back of his head, the stillness that's about decisions and how're they made. They can be a second in the making and a lifetime in the doing. 

They can be this, the lightest brush of lips against the back of his neck.

"Clark." He's hard, in that sudden, hideously embarrassing way that he hasn't been since adolescence. This body's been going without a long damn time, and this is the worst time to figure it out. He opens his mouth to tell Clark to stop. "Touch me."

No. Oh God, no. That's not him.

The big hands slide down his arms, stopping at his elbows, lingering there. Another light kiss, chaste as a child, but the erection pushing into Lex's back isn't chaste at all. Fuck. And *fuck*. And that other Lex is peering out, curious, trying to connect this with needles and rough hands, reaching for Lex's memories to give it context. "Clark."

Clark's voice is rough. "Don't tell me to stop."

He wants to--dear God, he wants to, but the words won't form. Lex turns his head instinctively at the soft brush of hair, and that's a mistake. Clark kisses him, slow and light and gentle, like he's handling glass that will shatter on a breath.

Lex could break from this. Clark tastes like coffee and pie from dinner, and hope, electric on his tongue Lex finds himself turning reaching to touch, high cheekbones and silky hair. 

A careless surge of other-Lex, and everything happens too fast--stretched out on Clark's childhood bed, Clark beside him, touching with those flickering fingers that feel like warmth and comfort both. In some ways, this is closer for the other Lex--wanting Clark so desperately, wanting to touch like this, and it moves him to dig his fingers in, wrap a leg around Clark's thigh and grind down. No. No, such a bad idea.

Such a fucking *bad* idea.

"Clark."

"I won't hurt you." Clark lifts his head, lips red and swollen, eyes wet and dark. "Let me. I just want to--I need to--"

Let me, the other Lex whispers. I want. I *need*.

Clark kisses like a kid, or a very desperate man, a man trapped by a choice he was too young to make too many years ago to count. He's Clark, and there's never been a time Lex didn't want him, even when he didn't. 

This is new. These careful, tentative touches. Making out like kids on a plaid bedspread in a Smallville farm--how could it be more clichéd? Lex had dreamed about this once upon a time, and this Lex did, too. Warm and soothing and so fucking slow, all with clothes on and hands above the waist. But starving for all that, so deliberate, so careful. Christ, when is the last time Clark touched someone? Hell, Lex can't remember the last time *he* did, that it meant something, that it was more than anasthesia or rush. When it was--

Safe, Lex hears murmured in his head. It's safe.

It comes to a slow stop, Clark shifting beside him, hand touching his own mouth, like he's not sure it's still there. "Sorry," he breathes, like he's not sorry at all. "It's just--"

"Been awhile." And he's hard, and suddenly exhausted from this too long, too complicated day, and this is a warm bed that has Clark in it. Clark breathes out beside him, curling up with him in the narrow space, like he has no intention of moving. Lex really doesn't want him to.

"I can get us into LuthorCorp," Clark says slowly, fingers moving on Lex's arm like he's imagining skin, not worn cotton. "But I don't know how to--I mean, the computers. How to access the information you want. And you--"

"Don't worry about that part." Lex lets his eyes fall shut. "I'll take care of it. You--should rest."

"I don't sleep." That brings Lex's eyes wide open. "But you should." The big hand starts stroking again, and Lex's body is falling under without even meaning to. "Don't worry," Clark says against his skin, and Lex thinks he says something else, voice low and rough, matching the possessive touch of that hand. A twinge almost jerks him upright, but Clark's voice is wordlessly soothing in his ear, and his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. He goes to sleep feeling Clark, big and warm against him, feeling that gentle hand.

It feels very safe.

*****

There's a hypodermic needle discarded on the floor; Lex feels it in his muscles, the sluggish response of arms and legs, the fog in his head. The case is on the bedside table, the other needles methodically broken, the vials gone.

Will is all he's got, and it drags him downstairs, rail clenched between his fingers, everything blurred into incomprehensibility. But he knows this house like he knows the back of his hand. Stumbling into the kitchen, hands catch him, small and rough. He's too weak to knock her aside, falling into the chair she pushes him into.

"Where is he?"

"LuthorCorp."

Trust is like cobwebs when the habit's not in place, but even now, Lex's mind can't wrap around a why.

A cup's pushed in front of him. "He left this morning."

Lex tries to reach it with shaking, uncertain hands, splashing himself with burning heat. Red blossoms across pale skin, and he can't help but stare at his skeletal fingers. It hurts to think about what he must look like to Martha Kent.

"Why?"

His eyes focus on Martha abruptly--greyed hair and tight mouth, holding her own cup like a talisman. "He said he'd take care of it." Slowly, she takes a sip, faded blue eyes fixing on the checkered tablecloth. "Drink your coffee, Lex. He'll be back soon."

Doing *what*? He can't focus and Christ, his body wants nothing but stillness; mind, too. The cup overturns, and Lex is barely able to move enough for the rush of heat to miss his lap. One bare foot burns, but he doesn't care. "Why?"

"Lex." She's so pale. An immaculate kitchen on a sunny morning--afternoon--*afternoon*--and he's freezing and not sure why. "Don't."

He stares at her, at the sun behind her back. Afternoon. It's been over twenty four hours. It's closing on forty, maybe--his mind won't wrap around temporal math when he can't even get a thought straight in his head. 

And he's so *cold*.

"What is he going to do?" He knows. He has to know. It's somewhere in his head, in the touch of those big hands, in the way Clark looked at him, murmuring against his skin. He knows it, but he can't *find* it. Clark left, came back, said I can get into LuthorCorp. *I can get into LuthorCorp.*

"He didn't go to tell my father." This Lex knows. Martha gives him an unreadable look over the rim of her cup. "He went--to--"

"Lex." Her face stops him--a turn of her head to the door, highlighting pale skin and glimmering eyes. "There's nothing you can do."

"I can do anything." His head's trying to float away and he has no muscle control at all. It's so ridiculous it's a wonder that she's not laughing at him. "I've got to--I need to get to Metropolis." The secret to Xerxes is there. And so is Clark.

*Don't worry*. Leaning over him, reaching for that fucking case he'd just left lying around. *Don't worry, Lex.* Breath against his skin. As achingly gentle as Clark always is. *Don't worry.* Pulling out the needle, looking at the vials while he soothed Lex to sleep. Finding the one he needed. *I'll take care of you.*

*No one should have to kill their own father.*

Lex stumbles to his feet. The room twirls nauseatingly, and he's two seconds from vomiting his last meal all over the floor. "He's going to try to kill my father."

Martha doesn't look at him. He wonders if she's even breathing.

"He's going to go into my father's office and try to kill him."

Even to himself, it sounds insane. As insane as a world where Clark isn't Superman and Lex lived almost twenty years in a nightmare that never ended. As insane as watching Clark die when nothing could kill him. Lex fumbles for the edge of the table when his legs want to dissolve. "I have to get to Metropolis."

"Lex, it's been hours. If--"

"I have to." Clark is young and stupid and doesn't think, or maybe he's too old, thought too much, for far too long. "The car--" Shit, left that a long time ago. "Your car. Truck. We have to."

"Lex-"

"We *have* to." Redemption can't be found in blood. Lex knows that. Christ, does he know that. It's just another way to fall. "You have to help me. It's *Clark*."

She nods, and he thinks she must have said this today. This morning. When Clark came downstairs into this bright kitchen and told his mother that he planned murder and suicide all at once. Maybe they yelled, and she cried, and maybe Clark left in a rush of anger and old guilt, but he thinks that maybe they didn't. Maybe she took coffee, like this, and lifted her head while her son kissed her cheek, and he quietly walked out the door.

"You let him leave."

Like anyone could stop Clark. Like anyone can stand before that and hope to win. The blue eyes are very bright when they look into his. "I took away his choice once. I couldn't do that to him again."

"Take me to Metropolis." There's no way he can drive himself. He waits while she puts down the cup, standing up to look at him. "Mrs. Kent." He hears the pleading in his voice. His time's running out, and so is Clark's. It's been hours, and the Lex in his skin can't do what he has to. "Mrs. Kent. Please."

Her eyes flicker away to fix on the tile at their feet, and Lex holds his breath as he waits.

*****

Two men are dead before they see him leave the car. Shooting someone in downtown Metropolis in broad daylight isn't the way to get away with cold blooded murder, but then, Lex doesn't plan to be caught. Or to get away with it.

He thinks he hears Martha's soft gasp, but he's too far from the car to know for sure.

His body's still sluggish, but he knows LuthorCorp like the most unforgettable of dreams. He was raised in its walls, has always been here, even when he hadn't been. Belle Reve's nightmares were sometimes here, too. Locked up inside cold steel and concrete, a thousand feet above the earth.

The other Lex, too, wants. Carried along in bright, happy rage, sanity like an illusion. They look at him in the foyer of the building like a ghost, and security doesn't stand a chance.

Dad, Lex thinks, looking at the elevator. It's a deathtrap, but right now, so are the stairs. The other Lex is murmuring, we can't run up forty flights of stairs.

Lex takes a second to think that if they'd gone with his plan, this is not how this would be going.

"Get out," he says, and they all stare at him like he's crazy, and he is. Who lets the hostages go to tell? But then they move, a mass running to the door, and Lex goes to the elevator, pushing in the private code he knows like his own name.

Stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and thinking that the same results will occur. Every time. Right down to security combinations and bombproof elevators. Surely someone's called up to warn them.

He gets off on the nineteenth floor. Stair access is private, separate from the emergency stairs that run the rest of the building. Lex *knows* this place. He grew up in it and razed it once, rebuilt it and lived in it, across the street from the Daily Planet. He *knows* it, like he knows himself. Dad is--

Thinks he's as immortal as he is, the other Lex murmurs gleefully. He thinks--

"No one's immortal," Lex tells the air, blowing the doorknob off the stairwell. Alarms go off everywhere, even if Lex can't hear them.

He'll be waiting. He's waiting for us. He thinks he can win.

"Clark," Lex says to himself. "He has Clark." It's been too long. Lionel has Clark, maybe the way he always wanted, the way he never dared before. Clark has nothing to lose, now, and Lionel has nothing to risk. 

He won't kill us. He needs us. The voice bleeds satisfaction. He needs what we are.

"I know."

*****

Reality is cracking like an egg around them. Him.

He lives in this, Lex thinks, and it's not like the other times. Dragged into the depths of that mind is one thing, but seeing the world through the fractured glass is so fucking *different*. The stairs seem to twist around and open below him like some modern version of Dante's hell. He has to stop and grab for the sleek rail to convince himself it's real.

Too much absorption of the other Lex. He can feel it, the grooves being made in his mind. Not taking over. *Merging*.

"Stop it," he whispers, staring at the wall until it solidifies into something approaching normality. A woman passes him on the stairs, too-short hospital pajamas stained with blood, a tiny, broken doll in one hand, sliding through him like he's not there. His hand tightens on the rail. "*Stop it*."

I'm not doing anything. It's like a part of his thoughts, and he can barely distinguish between the two. Christ. No. No, no, no.

"Get. Back." He's not sure who he's talking to. Staring at the stairs winding up, he forces them into rational, straight metal and concrete lines. He's soaked in sweat, and he can feel the confusion of that other Lex, but the world slowly tries to reshape itself. Not enough--the walls quiver and he can hear the piano play in the background. He has to stare at his own fingers to convince himself that he's not playing himself.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Lex focuses on his own breathing, the sounds of his feet on the stairs, the thump of his heart. Tangible things. Another flight of stairs. His legs burn and his breath is coming too fast. This body's not used to this level of exercise.

The mind isn't either. Reality splinters at the edges, and Lex sees--things. Things that closing his eyes don't erase, ghost-visions just flickering on the edge of true sight. "I can't do this if you--"

I'm not *doing* anything.

Another flight, and his chest aches from the strain. One more up, stairs spiraling up to brilliant light that's not real, not real *this is not real*--

When his hand closes over the cold metal of the doorknob, he almost cries. "Just a few more minutes." It's so close to time, and he has to get up here, Lionel's computer and Lionel's blood--

"No. The information. And Clark. That's it. You carry out vendettas on your own fucking time."

This is my time.

The surge pushes him into cold metal, moving the body, making him a passenger, and he watches as his fingers try one code, then another.

"Lockdown," Lex whispers.

His gun raising and aiming, and this Lex never lost his eye or his aim. The pad's a smoking ruin and the door opens on a pull.

Lex emerges into a silent hall. His mind calls up a map of the building, and he turns left, pushing to regain a little control. Just a little. Enough to feel the thump of his feet on the floor, feel the gun still in his hand. 

Stop it.

"I need to know how he controls Xerxes," Lex grinds out. "We need to get Clark out. This isn't his fight. It should never have been his fight."

The other Lex is iffy on moral and ethical greys, and he fades for a few blessed seconds, enough for Lex to be grounded in too bright lights. The big, wide reception area, the elevator in the corner, the empty desk where Lionel's assistant is usually stationed. All echoingly silent.

He might have got away. 

The rage that follows the thought makes him stagger, almost dropping the gun.

"Not Dad." Lex almost grins. "He never backs down and he never gives up. He'll never admit we're a threat."

Every instinct wants to slam inside--it's not like he has the power of subtlety right now. Dad knows he's here. Dad's *waiting*, and somewhere in here, Clark could be dying and the information on Xerxes is waiting, and Lionel is--is *there*.

You don't understand. The other Lex presses into him, flashing things that Lex can barely understand, images that whip by like dreams. You don't know what he's done. He poisons everything he touches.

"So do I." Somehow, time hasn't erased the power of that, or the pain. "We're no different. If you'd been out, you'd be him, and there would be a blasted world and Superman would be dead. It wouldn't be *better*. We didn't do *better*. We just did it differently."

Other Lex is silent, and it's like being alone in his head, the room condensing, coming together in straight, rational lines, resolving into calm, neutral colors and solid shapes. Flat carpet under his feet. His father beyond those doors.

There's nothing *worse* here, not really. Dad got the power over Superman that Lex always wanted. There's no destruction by meteor monster because Dad figured out how to control it. He runs his business and has all the power Lex ever wanted.

Maybe he'll run for president, too, Lex thinks, and his hand freezes on the doorknob. And what kind of president would he be? Like Lex was?

You think? It's not quite a whisper, and it has a thousand questions in it. Lex touches the door with one hand, the cold wood grounding him.

"I didn't do better."

But maybe, I can do better now.

"You have got to be kidding." This is getting them nowhere. Lex leans into the door and pushes it open.

The office is so like his own, he has a second of wondering if reality's cracked again--glass and black lacquer, the huge windows, the sprawl of the man on the other side of the desk. Dad. Years in his grave, buried beneath concrete and dirt, but seated at that desk, staring at Lex like they've never been apart.

The other Lex goes silent, too.

"It took you long enough." Lionel motions at the phone. "I was wondering if I'd have to send security to bring you along." His eyes flicker to the gun, smile widening. "I see you came prepared."

Lex can't find words. Somehow, until now, he hadn't realized that facing Lionel Luthor would be facing his father. Or facing himself, and all the ways he never became anything else.

"Nothing to say after such a dramatic escape? A dramatic arrival? Really, Lex, all of this was unnecessary." Lionel folds his hands on the desk, and Lex twitches the sight of the kryptonite signet ring. He nods to the chair across the desk "Sit down, son."

He's actually going to that chair, feeling like a puppet on a string, pulled by his father's voice, the approval he thinks he can hear in the even cadence--approval, Christ, is he as crazy as this Lex now? 

"Where's Clark?"

Lionel shrugs. "Alive and well, Lex. You know better. I'd never damage such a invaluable resource." Lionel tilts his head, smile fading. "I have other ways of controlling Mr. Kent."

Lex grabs for the back of the chair before he falls. Or sits down. "Prove it."

With a look of profound exasperation, Lionel leans over, touching two numbers on the phone, then leans back. "Dominic? Have Mr. Kent speak, please."

The crystal clear pause reveals the sounds of movement, quiet murmurs of people in the background. A few long seconds, and then the sound of breathing, sharp and heavy. 

"Lex?"

He knew, maybe, but he didn't believe. Lex swallows, feeling the gun slipping in his grasp. He's sweating. Fear or shock or withdrawal? Another seizure? Not the time. The very antithesis of the time. Lex forces himself to focus. "Are you okay?"

"Get out of here, Lex." The frantic sound of Clark's voice is thickened by something else. Lex thinks of all the ways he's used to stop Superman. The easiest and most effective has always been kryptonite. "He won't--" The voice cuts off with a thump, and Lex bites down, forcing himself to listen. After a few seconds of dead line, Lionel leans over and hangs up with the push of a button.

"If you wish to leave, son, you can." Lionel leans back with another sharp smile. "I won't stop you."

"And send people after me to take me back?" Strangely, he thinks Lionel is serious.

Lionel shrugs. "Your value in controlling Mr. Kent is now ended. And I no longer think Martha Kent will be--useful for this. Or she would have been able to stop her son." Lionel tilts his head. "His willing compliance was useful, but there are other ways."

"You didn't use them before." 

"The risks outweighed the gains." Lionel shrugs elegantly, then the cool eyes fix on him. Lex feels the once over like a touch, and he's never wanted a shower so desperately in his life. "You look terrible, son."

"Torture has that effect." The wood of the chair seems to be straining beneath his hand. Lex takes a careful breath. His chest is still too tight, and his legs ache from the stairs, and he can feel the edges of everything blurring. He and that other Lex blurring. The AI might not be able to pull him out of this one.

Lionel rolls his eyes. "Your illness, son." He motions idly with one hand, like Lex's appearance is proof of--something. "It made you unable to distinguish fantasy from reality. Imagining things. You seem more coherent now." Lionel's voice is hypnotic; Lex feels the other Lex shudder softly, growling anger that brushes against the underside of his skin like heat. But not breaking through, not yet.

"I didn't imagine what you did to me." It's crazy. He can *see* what the other Lex saw, feel it on his body, feel it *in* his body. "What you did to everyone there."

Lionel sighs, the put-upon parent, and how the hell can that still work? Make him feel fifteen and a failure again. "Lex." His eyebrows push together as he leans forward on the desk. "Sit down."

His legs are giving out anyway. A chair is better than the floor.

"Son." Lionel's eyes catch his, holding them. "You don't understand. You can't. What happened to you wasn't your fault. What happened was--to borrow an expression--an act of God. You aren't *responsible*. You have to let it go. This--this habit of blaming me, of blaming Belle Reve--. You were ill. I didn't know what else to do."

"You're lying."

"I have recordings of what you were like there." Lionel slowly pushes his chair back. "I didn't know what else to do. You tried to kill anyone who came near you. After you came back from the island, you weren't--sane, son. No one would be, perhaps, after all you went through, and the fever damaged you. I've hoped you'd recover. That we'd find a way to help you." He's circling the desk, close enough for Lex to smell the expensive cologne. As familiar as his childhood. "I never would have chosen to send you there if there had been any other choice."

"I *remember*--"

"It wasn't real, son." Lionel's hand touches his face, cupping his jaw. Lex freezes, unable to flinch, not away from those eyes. "I'm your father first, Lex. Do you think I'd do anything to hurt you?"

They're all lies; he knows that. Knows it because he was raised beneath this, trained by this, shaped to believe and never believe anything at all. The long fingers stroke across his cheek, infinitely gentle, and Dad looks at him like *this*, like he's *seeing* him for the first time.

"You're a Luthor, son," Dad says, and it's like every word is coated in gold. Solid, true, absolute, can't be anything else, has to be--*has* to be. "You know that. You came here, didn't you?"

He's lying. The other voice seems so--weak, now. Or not even there. A figment of his imagination. No. No.

"I let you come here, to me. I knew, one day, you'd be able to overcome this." The gentle fingers slide around the back of his head, and Dad smiles at him. "You did it. I knew you would."

All those things--they couldn't be real. No one does that, would do that, Dad wouldn't do that to him, would never do that to him. There are lines, Lex knows that, and even Dad wouldn't cross them. They weren't--

"Let it go." The fingers stroke gently. "There's so much we can do now that you're with me, Lex. Clark, to begin. He'll be useful to us. To our plans."

No. 

"I could never understand how his--gifts--appeared." Dad's crouching, and Lex can't see anything but those eyes. "What he really is, son." Both hands on his face now, and Lex tries to breathe, but everything is blurring. "Lex. Look at me. What you believe happened--it wasn't real. It was never real. This is real. You and I. Not that."

"You used to call for me."

The big hands freeze. Lex blinks. That--wasn't a voice in his head.

"I listened every night. When I wanted you out, he covered the place in meteor rocks. He said I could listen, if it got me off, but I wouldn't see you again until I learned to obey."

Lex closes his eyes.

"I did obey. And he still didn't let you go."

"How did you get out?" His father straightens, eyes fixing over Lex's shoulder, widening. Lex wonders idly when he's seen him so genuinely shocked.

Turning in the chair is slow, like trying to move in a dream, and maybe this is a dream. But no dream has ever had Clark like this, pale-green under the lights, listing into the door, eyes wide. 

"Motivation," Clark answers briefly, and Lex's eyes refuse to focus, but there are stains on Clark's t-shirt that don't look like dirt. One big hand wipes across his face, smearing--something else. "Lex. Get away from him."

"You don't know anything." Dad straightens, eyes narrowing. "You would have destroyed him. He was ill."

"He was sane." Clark's voice cracks, like the earth opening up. "He was Lex. I listened and let him stay there, because I was stupid. You can't take anything else from me. I won't let you take anything more from him."

"He's lying, Lex."

"You aren't crazy, Lex. I heard what they did to you. What they said. What you didn't say."

They asked questions about him. They wanted answers. I knew what they wanted to know and I never told. 

Clark stumbles, but the green eyes never leave Dad.

"Lex." His father's voice has never been this gentle. "Don't listen to him. He was afraid of you. Afraid of what you knew. I needed to know to protect you."

"He never protected anyone but himself." Clark's voice shakes, taking a stumbling step that lands him in an awkward heap on the floor. "You're not crazy. You've never been crazy. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Stay away from him!"

Getting this close to that ring must hurt, Lex thinks, dropping the gun, reaching out with time-slowed fingers. Something new is pulling at his mind. Other Lex is trying to push through, and he can *hear* that voice, but it's all a jumbled mess. "What was the question, Dad?"

Dad's eyes snap down, staring at him.

"What did you need to know?" He forces the words between clenched teeth. The entire world is blurring out, and he's not sure why. It isn't the other Lex. Something--something he should remember.

He's not looking at Lex's hand.

"What is he?" Dad breathes, and Lex touches his father's hand. Feels him almost draw away, but he's waiting. Waiting for Lex to believe, and waiting for Lex to answer, waiting until he knows what almost killed his son to find out.

"Lex--" Clark whispers.

"What is he, son?"

Lex feels the ring with the tips of his fingers, strangely numb, like blood circulation's been cut off. Do it. Just--

He pulls, and it's not easy, he thinks he's breaking bone and flesh, and Lionel yells, trying to get away, but Lex throws himself forward, knocking them both into the desk. Lex stares down into the angry eyes and almost smiles. "He's my secret."

Big hands close around his throat. Breath stuffs his lungs too full, and Lex feels them tighten, on their way to crushing his windpipe or break his neck or both. He still twists at the ring, and Lionel growls, trying to dislodge him, but other Lex is helping, that old anger giving him energy, giving him a memory.

Somewhere distant, Lex hears a sharp sound, like a gunshot, and maybe it's his sanity, finally, merging with this Lex, and they can live out the rest of their lives incurably insane, living in dream worlds where men with scalpels and men with clipboards try to destroy him every night.

The sudden rush of air in his starved lungs sends him to his knees, curiously numb under him. Grabbing for his throat, he realizes he's holding a bloody ring, and he throws it, letting himself collapse into the carpet. Something heavy falls beside him, but he can't bother himself to look.

His mind feels like it's tearing in two.

"Lex."

Lex turns his head, can just make out Clark standing--staggering--against the chair. The gun falls from one hand with a soft plunk to the floor. He looks like he wants to cry. "Clark."

You can't find redemption in blood, Lex thinks, as he watches Clark stumble to him, dropping on the floor at his side. But sometimes, you can find some peace.

"I never told," Lex hears himself say, like that's so fucking *important*. In some way, it might be. Reaching out, he fumbles for the big fingers, smelling gunpowder all around them. "You--you didn't--"

"No one should have to kill their own father," Clark breathes, and Lex lets his eyes close. His voice is so faint that Lex can barely hear him. He has to remember--something--

The world blurs out in grey, and the clinging fingers of thought rip, like something tearing through his skull..

"Don't let me be him," Lex whispers, tasting blood. I am him. I've *been* him. 

He barely feels the hand that touches his face.

"You aren't."

* * *


	7. Interlude Three

*I never told*.

Lex opens his eyes on the ceiling of the Fortress. He can taste blood in his mouth.

"Please do not move. There was a great deal of damage."

Lex closes his eyes again, licking his lips. They taste dry, and the room reminds him of--

When he tries to move, something's holding him down. His fingers scratch at bare air. Instantly, his mind floods. Shit. Shit. No.

"Lex Luthor." The voice is familiar. "You incurred massive brain hemorrhaging. If you promise you will not move, I will release you."

"Where am I?"

The pause lasts too long. This isn't--Belle Reve. The room's not cold, and the voice is--he knows that voice. "I can't--" Lex sucks his lip between his teeth. Think. Christ, think. "I'm at the Fortress."

It's funny, how he almost thinks he feels the AI relax. "Yes."

His head aches, feeling curiously empty. Lex draws in a slow breath, then another, trying to orient himself. He's in the Fortress. The AI got him out. He's--alone again.

There's a place in his mind that feels torn, and he explores it curiously. An unscabbed wound that flinches when he ventures too close. "I--I wondered--"

"You went into cardiac arrest. I had to remove you earlier than planned."

"I won't--I won't move." He's not sure he can. Everything feels unfamiliar, his body a strange weight that pushes him down. "I don't think I can."

The restraints slide slowly away, and Lex lets his arms relax. Just lay there, breathing, trying to find himself.

"I feel--" He stops, trying to find the right words. "Something's missing."

For a long time, there's only the soft sound of whatever is monitoring him. Curious, Lex turns his head. A thin black band circles his upper arm, and fluid is being distributed into an IV. Very human hospital of the AI. "You should rest."

"Something is wrong." Lex slowly reaches up with his free arm, touching his head. "I feel--"

"You are exhausted." The bleep of the monitors rise in speed. "You upset yourself to no purpose. Nothing is wrong. The damage has been repaired to the utmost of this facility's abilities. Rest is what you need now."

"Damage?" Lex rubs his forehead. Everything feels wrong, and he can't quite touch the reason stretching just beyond him. "I feel wrong." All those lonely tendrils of thought, groping for the place that's gone, sliding around in his head with pain that isn't physical. He can't even try to describe it. "It's like--"

"You merged too much."

Lex nods carefully, trying to make the thoughts close around it, like grass covering a grave. And what a fucking odd metaphor to use. "I--wondered."

"It was difficult to extract you without--damage."

"Why did I go into cardiac arrest?"

The AI hums softly. "The earlier damage to your brain was--not fully healed. I should have anticipated this result. You were more vulnerable to the other presence." The silence that follows makes Lex wonder, but not enough to open his eyes. "When you collapsed, I was forced to remove you very suddenly." Another pause. "There were complications this time. You had not--I was unable to be--careful."

Lex searches slowly. All his own memories of there still exist, but the other Lex, that other life-- "What did it do to him?"

The AI's voice is quiet. "I do not know."

Lex draws in a slow breath. Christ. "He was already damaged. Insane."

"I see."

But he's not here now. The other Lexes are, in some shape or form, like his own memories but not quite, but not that one, just the flat memories of memories, the things that Lex showed him. The ragged edges of the pull are almost visible in his head. "It's like--I feel like I've lost something."

"I was able to extract you whole." The AI pauses again, and Lex is staring to hate those. "Your mind was--entwined with his. He did not want you to leave. It was very difficult to prepare either of you. He fought me."

And lost. Lex bites down, trying to push it aside. He didn't find shit on Xerxes, except that Lionel had controlled him, somehow. And he did--that. "His mind was fucked already. He was--" Crazy. "He wanted me to stay. He said my presence made him better."

"You might have exerted a stabilizing influence on his mind, yes." There's a gentleness in the voice that he's never heard before.

"This--I might have destroyed what was left of him." Lex thinks of Clark, leaning over him, telling him no one should have to kill their own father. And telling Clark-- "He never told. He was better. I lied." Christ. "They tortured him for almost half his life and he never told."

"You should not blame yourself."

Lex almost laughs. "I--don't pour on the bullshit. I won't for long. I never do." Just carry it around with him, that place in his mind where that Lex had clung too hard, needing what he was. His skin still feels so wrong, too tight, too thick. "I feel wrong."

"The damage was extensive. More extensive than anticipated. I do not know what that will mean for further--"

Lex almost sits up. Almost. "What?"

The AI seems to be bracing for something. "I don't know that your mind can survive that damage again. While I can restore brain tissue, I cannot--guarantee--that you won't be. Lost."

"Crazy? That'd be par for the course--"

"No. Your self. Your--being. The man who lives in this skin."

Lex's mouth twists. "You mean a *soul*? I never pegged you as the romantic type."

"That is a word humans use to describe it. The collection of experiences and thought-patterns that are yours alone. I cannot restore that if it is lost. This time, it was not easy to--assure that." Another of those fucking pauses. "Until you awoke, I was not sure if that had survived this time."

Slowly, it comes to him. What the AI is trying so carefully to say, then trying not to say at all. "This feeling--my mind feels like something was--"

"The merge was incomplete. The other Lex was a part of you, as the others were not. He wanted to keep you, this unique combination of memories and thought patterns. And he almost succeeded. What that is--is the place he was, that he made for himself in you. I was forced to--remove him so I could remove you." 

Lex breathes sllowly, trying not to move his head. That place moves with him, and it aches in a way he thinks he'll never lose. "Will it always be there?"

"I do not know."

Lex concentrates on his body. It's his--he knows it. "And me? Did you have to pull--was I too far in him, or was he too far in me?" He's having trouble wrapping around the concept, but somehow, he thinks he understands. "It--it was not just him, was it? It was--I was part of him, too."

"I explained the dangers of this. Of letting the other self touch you too much."

Yeah. Lex remembers. "I didn't mean to." He hadn't. He'd needed that Lex, and his own sanity was the only way he could use him. "I--he was--" So broken. Lex blinks hard. "There wasn't any other way. He couldn't even function. It was all instinct and--" Lex stops. "My father did that to him. His father. The same thing. They did that to us."

The AI doesn't say anything.

"He locked us in there because of what we knew. He left us there to rot, to--he did things to us. I don't know what. I don't want to know what." Christ. That place. "He made our whole world one lie. There was--he was broken." And when I left--when I left-- "Will he be okay?"

"I cannot predict. If he is cared for, he may recover. He will--have some of your memories. The things he touched in your mind, as you have his. He did not possess the same degree of neural damage you have, so the physical aspect is probably negligible."

"But this--" Lex touches his head lightly, brushing the skin with the tips of his fingers. It feels new. 

"He will feel that too. That--loss."

Lex rolls onto his side, careful of the IV. "I need to rest. Can you--" He doesn't want to think anymore. If he dreams, he doesn't want to remember them, either.

"A sedative can be administered." Lex feels the brush of something against his inner arm, a drone pulling away just as he lets his eyes flicker open. Closing them, the rush is like the AI pulling him out, but this time with no pain.

Nothing at all, really. Just warmth, and softness, and emptiness. He wonders if he'll ever stop feeling it.

*****

A few hours of wandering around the Fortress leaves him a little more familiar with his body. It's his--slipping around him like an old glove, well-worn and fitted to him--but that feeling remains, lingering on the edges of his mind.

He needs something to *do*.

"You should rest."

And the AI doing its best impression of a mother hen isn't helping. Lex almost growls, taking a seat at the main screen, just to get it to shut up. "I'm fine."

"You are recovering." The AI isn't above casual brutality. "Your brain is still fragile. The work done to repair the damage is not yet complete."

"When can I go again?" That last universe; Christ, the mission went to hell in a hand basket. Nothing new to add, and it had been so close--Lionel *controlled* the fucker. Shit. Shit, shit, *shit*.

The AI hums, in that way that makes Lex nervous. "I don't think it would be advisable at this time."

Lex turns in the chair, staring up at the screen. "What do you mean?"

"After your last experience, I am uncertain if it is logical to continue." Lex barely has time to grasp the words before the AI continues. "The damage was far more extensive than even I anticipated."

"But that thing's still out there."

The AI can't argue that. Lex waits, trying to force down impatience. "When I considered this course of action, I did not anticipate that your body may not be able to handle the stress."

"I'm dead anyway." Lex taps on the table with the tips of his fingers. Somehow, it grounds him. It's different, but then, everything's different, even if he doesn't know how. "We're all dead."

"Further research--"

"We don't have time for further research." This almost feels rote. "How far has the reassembling come?"

The AI is silent for a few seconds. "It will be functional in less than ten days."

Lex rubs his forehead, urging away the ache. "Is there anything you can do to--make it less dangerous? I have to go. We both know that."

The AI makes a hum that's amusingly close to a sigh. "I can repair destroyed and damaged neurons. Your own healing can accomplish much on its own. The damage is in the merging of the two psyches. If you can avoid absorption of the other--"

"He didn't want to let me go. He was--different. He could just--take over."

"That was from the weakening from the second jump." The AI pauses mid-hum. "You cannot allow that much again--"

"I didn't allow it this time!" Maybe the insanity, the winding twists of that Lex's mind. Maybe the drugs, or the seizures, or everything in between. Lex closes his eyes. "How long until it would be safe enough for me to go?"

"Never. But the optimal would be within the next six hours."

Lex stiffens. That's--not nearly as long as he expected.. "How long was I out?"

"It took three days to stabilize you and repair the damage."

Three days. Lex blinks, trying to put the information in context. Three days. *Three days*. "I almost died."

"Death was never a concern. What would have been left would have lived and breathed. You would not have been there to experience it, however."

Lex closes his eyes. "Your bedside manner sucks."

"I do not want you to take needless risks. You are correct; during the time you were unconscious, I researched other possibilities. There were none."

"Except for time."

"Yes. Except for time."

Lex nods, pushing himself up. "I should eat something. Call me in six hours." He stumbles--still adjusting to a healthy body and stronger muscles. "I--can I be alone?"

"If that is what you wish."

Lex nods and walks out.

*****

At some point during his time away, the AI had been busy. The small room he's been using had a rug by the bed, the blanket in dark purple simulated wool blend, soft to the touch. He hadn't brought much with him, and the AI still used Clark Kent as a model for modern fashion, but the clothes in the closet fit better than his most talented tailor could provide. Lex ate and showered, mind blank, dressing slowly in the small room. At some point, the temperature had risen; his skin didn't goosebump despite being wet. Soft, almost-leather boots wait in the closet, but he doesn't bother with those.

It's easier just to stretch slowly on the covers, eyes closed.

"I thought he betrayed me," Lex tells the air. He's not stupid. The AI is monitoring every breath. "Just answer. I know you're watching. What did you think I'd do, hang myself in the bathroom? I'm not him. Any of them." All of them.

"I was leaving you your privacy. Monitoring your vital signs is necessary."

"He was crazy, that other one. That Lex." Lex draws in a breath. "I never remembered Belle Reve, not really. Not like that." Lex pauses, licking his lips. "I never told Dad what I was. When I was younger--when you're a kid, you don't notice stuff like that. ODs that never end up any closer to a death certificate than an overnight in a hospital ward. Being able to walk away from--" Christ, from so much. "I knew--something. He never did. He thought--I don't know what he thought. He guessed, but he was never--sure."

"Your father was ruthless."

"My father had cancer once." Lex's hand goes automatically to his side, tracing the invisible scars of pointless operations. "He was dying. I know he'd do that. He tried it before with this rock.... But that place--he kept me there. A living, breathing--" Lex's breath stops. "He *kept* me there. To use. An organ bank. A living miracle. His own private fountain of immortality." His fingers refuse to unclench. "That wasn't a father. That wasn't even human."

"He was--Kal spoke of him."

Lex laughs softly. "Clark thought he could save him, too. Once."

Yeah, he gets the feeling the AI's lost on that one too. Lex shuts his eyes. "I--you know what I've done. What I'd still do. I know he did it, because I would have done it. That Lex didn't get it, but I do. He said he saw me, but he didn't see anything at all. Dad and I had a lot in common. Neither of us, in the end, were ever as human as Clark."

"Do you believe that?"

"You should *know* that." Turning his head, Lex wishes the computer had a corporeal form. The amusement in the simulated voice grates over his nerves. "I've seen your databanks. You know everything. Even Clark knew, eventually. That you can't just--that some people you can't save." From other things? Yes. From themselves? Never.

"You're still alive, Lex Luthor."

In the strictest sense of the word. "Yeah." Lex opens his eyes on the ceiling. "Why didn't you tell him to kill me?"

"Kal refused to take a life. He was--strangely adamant on that point." The AI sounds confused, but Lex isn't. When you see so much death, like Clark did, watched it around you every day, bathed in it, you only had two choices in the end. You stopped caring or you didn't. Clark didn't grow harder as he grew up, and that might have been his greatest weakness. "Your death, however, would have created a void that could have caused--significant problems for Kal and the remainder of the Justice League. It seemed wiser to terminate that line of consideration."

"Better the organized devil you know than the one that might cause chaos?"

"Despite your moral depravity, you were a gifted businessman and researcher. The risks, in the end, outweighed the potential gain." Lex almost grins. Moral depravity. Heh. "You would have been an extraordinary scientist."

"Being at the top of the Bell Curve doesn't change the ambition. I wasn't meant for that." Though one Lex was. Lex shies away from the thought, pushing down the associated memories. "When that thing is dead, you know nothing changes. They were right--this world, it's mine. It can be. No Superman, no Justice League to organize against me. All of it, everything in it."

"If that is what you want, I have no doubt you'll succeed." 

And damned if it doesn't sound amused. Lex lets his thoughts drift. "How much longer?"

"Five hours, ten minutes."

Lex nods, letting himself relax into the bed. "Wake me up when it's time."


	8. Between

This time, at least, the AI got him in during downtime.

Stretching, Lex takes in the room. Wide windows look out on a garden, warm with spring sunshine. Walls painted in dark cream, a few pieces of furniture, very him, a comfortable bed, and no bars or locks on doors or windows.

An improvement, then.

Sitting up, Lex warily takes stock. The body feels normal enough. No mysterious bruising. His head feels--well, like it does when he jumps. Clutters of that other Lex, just below, confused and curious and angry, too. Easy to ignore this time. The AI had said that there shouldn't be the problem with leakover unless he initiated it.

That seems to be holding. So far, so good.

Sliding out of bed, Lex goes to the closet. Perfectly normal clothes. Shoes in neat, military lines into the dark. He's even wearing the watch his mother gave him. It's--completely ordinary.

Except the being in a house, but really, with all the other problems in the other worlds--

"Oh God." Lex blinks, turning around, then looking down at his left hand. Wedding ring. Fuck. "Helen." But he doesn't smell her perfume, see her clothes. Maybe she has a separate room? Maybe in a separate house?

There are all kinds of new levels of paranoia associated with dimension jumping, Lex decides, going to the door. So many ways this could be bad, even if it's not a mental institution and he's not crazy.

So far, anyway.

Warily, Lex opens the door, half-expected either underlings or orderlies, but it's just a long hall, bright with sunlight and artwork. Stairs at the end. Downstairs are voices, and none sound like Helen.

Maybe he could just get *over* that already.

The stairs are carpeted, an unforgivable cruelty to hardwood, and it's well-worn, like its been here a while. The voices get louder and he can't just stand here forever. Someone eventually may come looking for him.

He follows the voices to the kitchen. A loud laugh freezes him in place--*Clark*. A low female voice, sweet and lilting . Dear God, Lana. Is he married to Lana? Lex finds himself rubbing the ring, like it'll grant wishes if he tries hard enough.

He--can do this. He's not living this life, after all, not really. Observing. What he should have remembered last time. Taking a deep breath, Lex pushes the swinging kitchen door open.

It's like a nightmare, but a relatively okay one. Lana's cooking something at the stove--she can cook? That's news--and Clark's seated at the island, glasses perched on the end of his nose, reading the newspaper, a little frown creasing his forehead. Casual in jeans and t-shirt. His hair is a mess, though, and still damp, like he just got out of the shower. Why is he here?

Lana turns around, spatula in hand, and Lex takes a deep breath. She's wearing a ring. Oh God. Oh dear *God*. "Lex!" She grins, waving the spatula in the general direction of the island. "Have a seat, I'm almost done."

That sounds--reasonable. Lex sees Clark look at him over the top of his glasses with a curious look, starting at his head and going straight down to his feet, then back up, a leisurely progression that at twenty-one ,would have led to Clark being bent over said island. Because he'd just been that kind of a guy then. Or now, come to think of it, surprised to feel himself flush like a teenager. Then one big, jeans-clad leg kicks, pushing out a stool. "Jeez, Lex, sit down." A grin chases the words like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "And here you said you'd be dead and buried before you ever went out in public without being dressed."

Lex eyes the stool. It looks okay. In fact, except for Lana, everything looks okay. And there are worse things, Lex thinks philosophically. He used to think he was in love with Lana. And she never tried to kill him. Sitting down, he glances at the paper Clark is holding. Lois on the byline. So far so good. He and Clark are on speaking terms. Also, new and good. Lex takes the cup Clark slides across the granite, taking a sip. "Good morning."

Clark snickers. "You're not really awake, are you? Just wait." His voice lowers conspiratorially. "I already called poison control, so don't worry. They'll be ready."

"Hey!" Lana turns in a streak of shining dark hair, but she's smiling. "I can cook."

"Pete told me."

Pete?

"He said your talents are obviously all political, not culinary." Putting down the paper, Clark sighs, pushing off the glasses and laying them the counter, leaning on both elbows. "So, he's up and here. You want to tell him now or wait?"

Lana's eyebrows arch, turning to turn off the burner. Two plates make a magical appearance in front of them, and Lex looks at the strangely shaped pancakes. It doesn't look any worse than some of the things he's cooked himself, and he's never died. Yet.

Clark is digging in, but Clark's not human.

Gracefully, Lana seats herself across from him, picking up a cup emblazoned with smiling fish and the words 'Metropolis Sharks'. "Right. You want to hear about it now?"

Lex takes a bite of the pancake. It's not bad. A little runny in the middle, but he can deal with that. Chewing slowly, Lex picks up his coffee cup and nods.

"I was going to wait until tonight, but I think they'll bring it up, so." Lana spreads her hands on the counter. "They're going to ask you to try for the nomination. I've looked at the numbers, and--well, it's not going to get much better than this. I want you to think about it."

Lex slowly puts down his cup. The nomination. "Numbers?"

"We've done some good things this last session," Lana says, tapping the counter with one manicured nail. "Everyone is paying attention. There isn't a stronger candidate in the field. If you run, I think you can win."

For-- "Lana--"

"I know." Lana spreads her arms, shaking her head. "You said this would be the last time, that you wanted to be a private citizen again. But--Lex, not everyone gets this kind of opportunity. It's the presidency."

Lex wonders if he's still breathing. "Oh."

Lana rolls her eyes. "'Oh'. Yeah, so you. Look, talk it over with Clark, and think about it, okay? We've done everything we can as senators." Her eyebrows raise in amusement. "We can talk about it later. Just don't reject it out of hand, okay?" Glancing at her watch, Lana makes a snorting sound. "I'd better get back to Pete and the kids. Technically, I'm supposed to be off the clock until the next session." Leaning over, she brushes a kiss on Clark's cheek. "You two think about it, okay? I'll se you tonight." Picking up a tiny purse, she waves, walking out the kitchen door.

He's--not married to Lana.

"You should think about it." Clark picks up both their cups, walking to the coffee pot. "I think she's right. It's time."

"I--yeah." His eyes fix on Clark's left hand, watching for the platinum blur. When Clark turns back around, he wonders if this is another hallucination, left over from the other Lex. It has to be. "Clark--"

"Here. And good morning to you, too." An absent kiss touches his mouth, tasting of too-sweet coffee and sticky from syrup, then Clark is sitting back down. "You slept late. It's nearly ten." Clark grins, bright and sunny, and that's right, even if nothing else is. "You want the paper?"

Lex stares at it for a second. "No, not right--Clark." Resolutions to observe be damned. Clark is close enough to touch. And--and he's allowed to. Supposed to. He pushes his palms into the granite to stop himself. "I--you have any plans today?"

Clark laughs. "Besides working on my book, not so much." Taking a drink of coffee, Clark stretches. It's mindbending. Lex feels like a teenager seeing porn for the first time, and they're in a perfectly normal kitchen, and Clark's fully dressed. "Why? Did you have something planned?"

"I--not really." Fuck you. It's just there, and inevitable, like a car crashing into a guardrail. He's got to get out of here. "I'd better get dressed."

Clark cocks his head, eyes following Lex's body as he stands up. "Need help?"

Christ. He's moving before he means to, but it's Clark, smiling at him, big hands sliding up to rest on his hips, like they do this every day. Any time they want. For a second, Clark just looks at him, eyes the dark green of wet leaves, lips slightly parted. So. God.

"Take a picture," Lex whispers, feeling his throat tighten. "It'll last longer."

Like that, he's straddling Clark's lap in a rickety stool, forget the odds of crashing to the ground, but God, he doesn't care, tasting Clark's warm, perfect mouth, hungry and desperate and eager, until Clark takes control, softening the touch into something else. Soft and warm, lazy, like people who do this all the time, people who are used to this. Clark's hands move in slow circles up his back, resting briefly on the back of his neck, tilting his head away, forehead pressed to Lex's. "I like the real thing better."

Lex realizes his hands are tangled in Clark's hair. He's breathing too fast. Clark's playful smile, the slow circles of his hands--Lex remembers this, with Lois, with Lana, even with Chloe. How they all could coax this careless joy from Clark when he never quite could. These touches. These smiles.

There aren't words to clothe this feeling, and Lex pulls himself back, almost falling. Clark blinks, staring at him, pushing off the stool. Lex backs up. I can't. I don't. I want. Christ, do I want. "I need a shower."

He turns away before he can see Clark's face.

*****

Clark's sitting on the bed when he gets out of the shower. He should have expected that, somehow. Widespread knees, big hands resting on the denim, looking at the door with thoughtful impatience. Lex feels the eyes on the towel like a touch, like Clark can see right through it.

Hell, he *can* if he wants to.

"You okay?" Clark doesn't stand up, and Lex remembers times like this, before--years before they were enemies, but after the word friend stopped applying in any but the loosest sense. Wary study, cocked head and shaded eyes. What are you thinking, Lex, what are you doing, Lex, what are you hiding, Lex. "You seem--off."

"Just more tired than I thought. I overslept." Clark's eyebrows raise in polite disbelief. "I'm--sorry, Clark." There's no way he can figure out how to explain this that sounds sane.

"I--is everything okay?" Clark's face twists in concern. He's almost vibrating on the bed, wanting to come closer, Lex thinks, but not sure how Lex will react. Lex isn't sure of that either. "You don't have to make a decision today. Lana's just--enthusiastic."

Lex nods. He wants to go to the closet desperately; nudity while talking to Clark isn't a good idea. Not a good idea at all. "I'm fine, Clark." He watches Clark's hands rub restlessly up and down the denim of his jeans. Wedding ring. Their room. This room. Lex absorbs it slowly, like he ignored it in the shower. They are--them.

"Then why--"

I have no fucking idea. Lex stares at Clark, feeling the hand gripping the towel grow sweaty. "I'm just tired."

He's lied to Clark for years. He's good at, brilliant at it, but the words aren't honey-smooth on his tongue and they ring discordant in the room. This body, this Lex, doesn't lie. He's not even sure how.

"Bullshit. Something's bothering you." Clark stands up, prepatory, Lex thinks, to him coming over and *touching*. His body *knows* it, skin shivering in anticipation. Not just this body. Lex wants, too. This is *Clark*. Wanting had never changed, even when everything else did.

Lex steps back, sees the green eyes widen in surprise, glistening in hurt. Christ. He can't handle this. "I'm thinking about something," Lex hears himself say, words tripping over his tongue to get out, remove that *look*. He's never seen it before, never wants to see it again. He's never had a Clark who cared like this. One that he could hurt this easily. "It was a bad night."

"You seemed okay when I left." Clark isn't coming at him again, but he looks a little more understanding. "You want to talk about it?"

Shit. "In a little while. When it's not so--fresh." How ironic, that his nightmares are so much tamer than the realities he's seen now. "I'll be in my office." He wonders if the words come out as sharp as they feel on his tongue, and they do, they *cut*. Clark takes a backward step that's as good as flinch, belatedly nodding his head, and going to the door. 

Lex relaxes when it closes, letting go of the towel, feeling it unwind from around his waist and pool on the floor. "Fuck."

*****

The metal and glass office is located to the back of the house on the first floor. A careful exploration of the house hadn't yielded up Clark's presence, which had been a bitter kind of relief. He can't face him again, but he wonders if he's okay. The other Lex--ah, the other one could handle this when he's gone. Say whatever, do whatever, go with it, make Clark happy however he does it. God knows, Lex never got it right, no matter how hard he tried.

Sitting at his desk, Lex activates the LexCorp interface, bringing the network online. Information first, this time. No wandering blindly. This, *now*.

"Xerxes," he murmurs to himself. So like Lionel, to name it something semi-mythological and ridiculous. Password in, Lex pulls up the interface. If Clark and perhaps this Lex dealt with whatever it was, they'd have put the records in here somewhere.

There's the possibility that the information is on a Lexcorp computer not connected to the network, of course. Lex rubs his forehead and starts the first search string. Too much to hope that this dimension and the one before paralleled names.

*Xerxes*, though. Lex shakes his head, leaning back, watching the screen. This might take a while. 

"Lex?"

Automatically, Lex locks the screen, waiting for the door to open on Clark, but it doesn't. Hmm. "You can come in."

Carefully, the door pushes open. A dark head peers inside, wary. Lex doesn't like himself much in that second--he gets the feeling this Clark isn't used to a Lex that acts like this.

Inner Lex, far beneath, agrees. Lex shuts him down. "You busy?"

Lex tries not to react, but he can't help it. Clark looks *good*. Or he's been dimension jumping way too much. "Not really. Just running some searches. What can I do for you?"

The look on Clark's face tells him he's not acting anything like whatever Lex lives here. Well, how the hell is he supposed to know how to act? All his spouses try to kill him. Taking a deep breath, Lex leans back, trying on a careful smile. See if that works. Clark pushes farther into the room. So far so good.

"I'm going out for a while. A thing." The significance of the words aren't lost on Lex. A *thing*. A Superman thing, maybe. "If you need me, call the AI."

"What happened?" Mudslide in Bolivia? Uprising in Peru? Snowstorm in Venice? Who the hell could tell?

"Just a patrol on the western seaboard. Earthquake." Clark shrugs, sliding further into the room. "I know I said there wasn't anything to do today--"

"Disasters respect no man," Lex answers, wondering how his mind will ever re-adapt to his own life when this seems so normal. New world here, new lover there, a side trip to insanity, all par for the course. "Go ahead. I'll be--here, probably." Or LexCorp, if necessary. 

Clark stays at the door, eyeing him uncertainly, like he's expecting more. What now? Lex stands up awkwardly. He's sure he doesn't want Clark coming close enough to see the locked screen. Clark's mouth relaxes suddenly, and Lex wonders why he hadn't noticed how tight it was before.

A second, then Clark flashes across the room, and Lex is helpless against the desk, the slow, gentle kiss taking breath and reason. Comfortable. Familiar. Sweet. His body knows how to slide into that embrace, curl his fingers in thick dark hair, relax into the easy, familiar moment.

It's over with a breath, with Clark stepping back, looking a hell of a lot less freaked out. Grinning as he touches his mouth with the tips of his fingers. "If I had time--"

"Yeah." It's true. If they did--if they did, then he'd--they'd--

"Be back soon." Clark vanishes, like he's added teleporting to his list of accomplishments, leaving Lex still leaning into the desk, watching the door without seeing a thing.

"You know," Lex tells the walls, and yes, insanity may start like this, but he thinks that may be the least of his problems, "this stopped being a weird coincidence a world or two back. Is there something fate wants to say?" There are things he wants to say--Christ, if he had the AI right now, he'd have a *lot* to say, about how random worlds aren't random at all, and how he didn't believe in fate, and even if he did, this isn't what he would have chosen, no way in hell. He might be bitter. A little. Or a lot.

"Fuck." Pushing away from the desk, Lex unlocks the screen. Not done yet. Well, searching all those databases has to take some time. The results page already looks scary. He's going to be sorting files for hours. Maybe the entire time he's here. And he's--hungry.

Hungry.

"Shit." Locking the screen again, Lex finds the kitchen with minimal effort, empty but for the morning sunlight, the neatly stacked dirty dishes by the sink. A normal, extremely gourmet class kitchen--he wouldn't expect less of himself--on what seemed to be an ordinary day.

He has no idea why he's so unnerved.

"Maybe I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop," Lex tells the sink, then shakes his head, taking internal inventory. Still frozen inside, deep below, Lex can sense the other's rage. It won't be long, he tells himself, wondering if the other Lex can understand. This isn't forever. It's barely two days. Don't worry, I won't lay a finger on him.

That's a lie. He wants to. He can feel it in his teeth--and God, the fourth Clark in only weeks, and the most sane of them all. Lex swallows around a tightness in his throat.

Action makes everything simple. Mindless action is even better, his body leading him through the motions of making a sandwich, a glass of juice, a desperate wish for brandy that really makes him stop and think about his alcohol intake on a daily basis. 

There's nothing to do but pace, leaking impatience, and the third bite of the sandwich finds him watching the sky. It takes seconds to realize it's Clark he's looking for.

"Fuck." Turning around, Lex tries to think of where to go. Tossing the remainder of the sandwich in the trash in the large, disturbingly overstocked pantry, he goes outside, glancing around the quiet grounds. Upper class suburbia gives the illusion of freedom and space. From here, he can't even see the other houses.

Something cool and solid just brushes the back of his head. Frowning, Lex turns around, looking into wide, dark eyes, soft like he almost-remembers after they fucked. The gun presses against his mouth.

"Hey, Lex."

She pulls back, just a little, and Lex sees the swing telegraphed in her eyes, but this body--this *fucking* body isn't as fast as his, not as strong, doesn't know everything Lex had to learn the hard way. He's a second too late, eyes closing , hand half-raised as the strike across his temple knocks him to the ground.

Oh shit, that *hurts*. He tastes blood from biting his lip, ankle twisted with a pain bright as a sunburst beneath him.

Helen looks down on him, serene as a still summer day.

"Nice to see you again," she says, and the next blow is nothing but darkness.

*****

There's nothing particularly new or enlightening about waking up tied to a chair.

It wasn't just Smallville. Being an icon had its disadvantages, kidnapping being chief of them, and even Hope and Mercy weren't proof against superhumans, out for revenge in some strange version of vigilante justice, or using him as a bargaining chip against Superman. The latter was annoying; the former, humiliating. It had never been all that comforting to know Clark felt the same slow, painful twist in his gut, every time. 

This, though, feels personal, not an attack on the icon or a stand-in for Superman, and it's been years longer than even Helen could have been expected to wait, simmering with whatever quiet, insane rage had fueled her over the years. 

Blindfolds were standard operating procedure. Hoods were better, dulling sound as well, but Helen had never been a very good villain. It wasn't that she didn't try. But ruthlessness had never been her forte. Back then, it hadn't been his either, though, so maybe she'd changed.

Licking his lips, Lex tasted the dried blood, but the bite on his tongue was long healed. Hours, maybe. Unconsciousness with the added incentive of some narcotic. Like this undertrained body isn't slow *enough*. Lex thinks, a little wistfully, that he could spend the rest of his life preaching the drug-free message to the masses with utter contentment if he could be guaranteed that no one would shoot him up again without his express permission.

The room's stuffy and feel small, like it doesn't have quite enough fresh air. Bank vault, crypt, meat locker out of service? There are so many possibilities, none of them particularly comforting. An old house with an unused attic, though the lack of dust in the air suggests he's looking for somewhere with more traffic.

Lab. Good call.

It *would* figure that the most comfortable universe so far would be where he'd get kidnapped. That's just how his life worked.

"I know you're awake, so don't bother pretending."

It isn't like he's pretending. Heels on a tiled floor, the sound of a gun being dragged over a metal lab table. Yes, very Helen, bring it all back to the lab.

"I'm sure Clark will figure out you're gone soon enough."

Not if he's patrolling. Lex wonders if he and Clark have servants, if anyone noticed anything happen. Yelling for Superman, in retrospect, may have been a good idea. If he'd been thinking. Twisting his wrists, Lex tests the restraints. Feels like duct tape. Probably the most insidious restraint in the world, not to mention sticky. Crap. "What do you want?" 

The heels stop, at what he judges is only a few feet away. Lex listens, but from here, he can't even chart her location by breathing. There's a low rumbling, like the subway nearby. An underground near a *subway*? She was never cut out for good villain work.

"I think fifteen years of having to hide from my own life is enough reason, don't you think?"

Lex bites his tongue. "Back then I wouldn't have killed you." Back then, he'd been very young, very in love, and endlessly worried about who he was becoming. There's so much less stress in not caring. Lex's fingers itch for a gun or the skin of her throat. 

The heels leave. So much for talking the plan out of her. Revenge at this late stage seems silly--he's known for years that her father's sent her money when necessary, but it never seemed more than a small, bright spot of satisfaction, easily forgotten. Maybe he wouldn't have killed her, even if he'd been who he was now.

Maybe he should be wondering why, now, Helen's suddenly proactively seeking out Lex Luthor for no better reason than tying him to a chair and taunting him. No one, even Helen, is that stupid.

Lex moves his wrists in the tape. Sweat helps break the stickiness, but it won't do anything for all the layers. He needs his teeth. Or a knife. Or something sharp.

"Clark doesn't negotiate with terrorists." Superman does, but Superman can also crash through things afterward and keep everyone alive. Of course, God knows what this Clark does. Besides fuck Lex Luthor. 

Dear God, does he hate being kidnapped. So fucking undignified.

"Who says this has anything to do with negotiations? Or Clark Kent?"

The sound of the heels vanish, and Lex pushes his feet against the bottom of the chair. Old fashioned wood. This body knows *nothing*. What kind of person is he to get this out of shape?

And what the hell does she mean, no negotiations?

"Struggling won't help you."

Five feet to the left. She must have taken off her heels. Lex bares his teeth, not turning his head toward the sound of her voice. "I feel better doing it."

"I can still shoot you in places that won't make you bleed out immediately."

True. If this was his body, he might even care more. And if he wasn't relatively sure that she had no intention of killing him.

"If you're planning to kill me, you should get it over with. You don't need Clark here for this."

Her voice is thick with amusement, and Lex likes that so very little. "If Clark comes here for this, then it'll be worthwhile."

And what the fuck does *that* mean?

Pushing a foot into the floor, Lex rocks experimentally, just a little. It's not too heavy, even for these muscles. And it'll startle her. Falling is an instinctive no-no in the human brain. Kicking off, he feels the wobble, like it might just come crashing back forward, and he hears her curse. For a second, all the universe seems to balance on two spindly legs and Lex's will, but Lex's will is better than wood sometimes, and it goes backward.

His head hit a wall, the back of the chair scraping downward to the floor, snapping his head forward--shit, that hurts. Every muscles screams in protest, but the wood makes a lovely cracking sound that does wonders for his mood. He can hear Helen's small feet pattering toward him, the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking, probably readying herself to air a threat that's pretty useless. Lex knows kidnappers and he knows Helen. She might kill him, but probably not with her own hands. A kick connects solidly with a her calf, and she goes down. Lex listens to the cheering sound of a gun skidding away from her and feels for the back of the chair. It's disattached itself from the seat.

This, he can work with.

"Lex!"

Superman's voice is different from Clarks, too--it took him years longer than it should have to figure out the secret because of that. Lower, somehow gentler, but far more commanding. Clark by way of Jonathan Kent, with tiny bits of Lex's own careless authority--it took him *years*, but every time Lex hears it, he thinks of Clark in his office at the manor, imagines Clark listening to him, incorporating that, one of the thousands of bits and pieces of other people to create Superman.

There's a tiny hitch of sadness in that thought. Lex crushes it, stilling himself when he feels the rush of air and gentle hands on his face, pulling the blindfold away. It's Clark, for a second, just a second, terrified and vivid green in Superman's face. Lex stops breathing. 

"You're okay?" The big hands rip through the tape effortlessly, and Lex pulls his hands in front of him, studying tape cuffs on bare skin. That's so going to hurt when it comes off.

"Fine." He turns his head, watching Helen slowly crawl toward that gun. "I wouldn't try that, Mrs. Luthor."

Helen's smile freezes. Clark's eyes flicker back to him, reflecting confusion, before Superman comes back and takes over. Rising, he pulls on all the authority that a superstrong and really tall alien can get, and that's a lot. Lex has never denied the sheer overwhelming *presence* of Superman.

"Miss Bryce, you are under arrest."

Lex supposes, as he pushes himself free of wood debris, that Clark, the current spouse, can't be too pleased to hear the ex addressed thus.

"I deserve this." Her eyes are dark and fixed. Fifteen years of exile from everything you know and everything you are can't be easy. In another world, he could sympathize. Just not any one he's ever existed in. The gun brushes his shoe, and he slowly leans down, picking it up. Helen doesn't even flicker when she sees it. Apparently, Lex Luthor here isn't that much of a threat. "He ruined my life. And you--" Her eyes flicker down his body, insultingly familiar. "Thank you."

"You ruined your life," Lex says, finger on the safety. Clark doesn't even twitch when Lex comes up beside him. The Clark from his world would have disarmed him and crushed the gun by now, flying them both to the Met PD or the most local station, whichever was handier. "You made mine a living hell for the better part of a summer, though. Fair trade?"

Maybe not, from the look on her face. Her hand slides under her shirt, and Lex lines up the shot and fires.

Clark's long seconds too late in reacting--a million years in Superman time--and it's mostly disbelief, even as Helen sinks down, a pool of crimson soaking into her blouse and sliding beneath her face. The dark eyes are empty before Clark even has a chance to touch her; Lex, barring Superman, hasn't missed a shot in over a decade, not when he meant it.

When Clark looks at him, the green eyes are huge and blank.

"Lex." It's too many times in their lives to count, that forever-surprised, forever-disappointed voice, almost makes it familiar for his hand to move again, lining up a second shot at a vulnerable throat, face, chest. Not that Clark is really vulnerable; these aren't kryptonite bullets. But then again, Lex has never had a moment quite like this before. Superman never got into a position to *be* on the business end of Lex's gun and he wants a chance to savor it. The green eyes track the gun, then freeze on Lex's face again. Clark swallows, hard, not a super alien in a bright suit, but the man that left Lex this morning with his taste on Lex's lips. "What's going on?"

Lex swallows and lowers the gun. For some reason, the silly images of Clark from two worlds ago intrude--the playful shimmy into that suit before Lex's fascinated eyes, the way he pulled Superman over him like a cloak. Clark doesn't move until Lex lowers the gun, then stands up, eyes fixed on Lex.

"You--aren't Lex."

This Clark has some improvements over the others.

"What makes you say that?" Lex slides the gun in his pocket--he's not going to be unarmed again. "You're imagining things."

"You haven't touched a gun in over a decade," Clark whispers, taking a step toward him. It's not threatening, but only because it's not Superman. Clark's fragile uncertainty is like a bubble--Lex can confirm or deny, and he can make this Clark believe either one.

But the other Lex will be the one left to deal with it, and Lex doesn't hate himself that much.

"No, I'm not."

That was an *incredibly* stupid thing to say. Clark has him up against the wall by his throat, and Lex almost laughs, because God, is he tired of various Clarks doing this shit. "Who are you?"

It's hard to force words out from a nearly crushed throat, but he's had practice. "Lex. Lex Luthor."

The hand tightens. Clark could accidentally break his neck; not good. Think. He thinks you've taken over the body of his lover. Husband. Whatever. He might not kill you? But he sure as hell might have an accident.

"Different world." The words are harsh around the edges, breathless. Clark stares at him for a second, then his grip loosens, enough for Lex's feet to find the ground.

"What does that mean?" There's a copper taint in the green eyes when Clark looks at him. Shit. Not good. 

"I--my world is being destroyed. Superman's dead. I needed--to find out how to stop it."

"How?"

"The AI." The other AI he'd met had known, had felt it in him. Lex forces himself not to grab for one big wrist. Prying Clark's hands loose would be a joke at best. Easier to command the wind. Which he's done, once. "Ask it. It'll--tell you. Know."

The green eyes narrow. No receding of red, but at least not more. "Let's find out."

*****

It's almost like being in his own world. The arctic fortress doesn't look any more inhabited than Lex's last stay there, and a hell of colder. Lex shivers in his thin coat. He hadn't realized the AI had warmed the place up for him.

Clark's talking to the computer, the swift, liquid Kryptonian too fast to even try to follow. Shivering, Lex bundles the coat closer and wonders if this AI has any treatment for frostbite.

After what seems like hours, Clark turns around, staring at him. Lex can't read him at all.

"How?"

Lex licks his lips and regrets it. That only makes them colder. "The AI did it. Dimensional hopscotch. I don't know how."

The AI is silent, but it's not calling him a liar.

"Where is Lex?"

Retorting with 'I am Lex' would be silly. Really not the time for mind games. "In here. It doesn't last long, the--this. The AI pulls me out after forty-eight hours."

Clark's so blank you could write novels on his skin. "How long have you been here?"

"Five hours, give or take. I'm just here for information. I have no intention--" Of doing anything else. Sex will, apparently, be out of the question. Lex can't figure out how much he regrets that. "Just information."

"About what?"

"Xerxes." Clark's blanker look is a good indication the name changed between universes. Shit. Xerxes was so convenient, too. "A robot, organic/Kryptonian hybrid. Indestructible. Superman died stopping it once, but it's come back." Reassembling out there, somewhere, ready to commit some of the most thorough genocide ever. Lex wishes, not for the first time, that they could at least have found out why. Some things just are, but most things have a motivator.

"And you're the second line of defense?" Clark seems to relax a little, but nothing will erase the shock of Helen's death. In retrospect, settling that old score might not have been worth it. 

"I'm humanity's only line of defense, and right now? You are fucking with it in a big way. I was running searches on LexCorp's computers--"

"You won't find it there." Clark leans into the wall, glancing back at the AI for second. "That's classified Justice League data."

Of course it is. Lex sighs. "I need what you have."

The look on Clark's face isn't encouraging. "I need to believe you. I just watched you kill Lex's ex-wife in cold blood. That's not something that usually inspires confidence."

"I've done worse, for less reason." It just slips out like that. Some weirdly masochistic part of him still feels those intimate looks, those touches, that the other Lex received this morning. He's better at self-sabotage than anyone he knows, even Clark. "We're not friends, Superman. But in this case, I really don't think it matters. Unless you want to be responsible for the death of an entire world."

Clark's jaw tenses. "I want more than your word. Like you to get the hell out of Lex."

"I can't. Not until the AI pulls me out. He's fine. He's just--" Raging. Somewhere deep that Lex is avoiding even thinking about, because even that much bleed-over could be deadly with his mind in the shape it's in. "He's not hurt. And you'll get him back, safe and sound. But I need this information, Clark. You have it. A little trade, and when the AI pulls me out, you get back your lover and I get to save my world. Win-win, don't you think?"

After a few long, deathly cold seconds, where Lex wishes desperately that Clark had thought to build the Fortress somewhere tropical, the AI speaks. "He is not lying, Kal."

Clark glances back. "You're sure?"

Another pause. Lex can practically see it calculating probability. "I am as sure as a full neuroscan can provide. The current brain activity suggests that he is neither directly lying nor misdirecting. His--motives are not suspect." A lot else is suspect, Lex thinks, but Clark has every reason to suspect him.

"I--still have to patrol." Clark frowns, looking at the AI. "I'm leaving him here. God knows what could happen if he runs into someone we know." Like Lex might be shooting them for fun or something, his voice seems to imply. Another glance, and then Clark shakes himself. "There are--rooms. Pick one of the empty ones. I'll be back and I'll access the information for you then." In a blurred rainbow, Clark is gone.

The AI is still watching him. It's more of a felt thing than seen. "If it's any consolation, the other AI doesn't like me much either."

The room drops ten degrees at least. Lex narrows his eyes. "That's just petty."

"You cause Kal distress. Lex-Luthor does not do that."

"This Lex Luthor caused Clark distress every day and twice on Sundays." Not true. He took Sundays off. "I'm not here to cause problems in your world."

"The one whose body you inhabit may disagree."

The other man inside does, definitely. "He'll come to no lasting harm." Not if Lex is careful, and this time, he will be. "Can you get it above freezing, or do you want to damage this body further? Mine is perfectly safe in a room back at the Fortress, so the only one you're inflicting damage on is your Lex."

"I will warm one of the rooms for you." The temperature drops so suddenly that the breath Lex lets out in shock is solid white. The message is clear. Get the hell out of here and in one place you cant' do damage where I can watch you.

It's not that Lex blames it--much--but dammit. "I'm not here to cause harm."

"You took a human life as if it were that of an animal. You distress Kal. Please go."

Oh. Yes. That. Tucking his hands under his arms, Lex sighs and turns, watching the door open for him with admirable speed. The room he's supposed to inhabit opens all on it's own, and Lex walks into the sterile white room, turning to watch the door swing shut. He wonders if he should test it to see if it will let him out, then shrugs himself out of it, aware the room is warming--reluctantly, grudgingly, but warmer.

Well. He's been in worse prisons. Going to the spartan bed, Lex stretches out and wonders if there's any way he can fall asleep.

*****

There's no way to, of course. He paces the room twice, coming to a stop by the bed each time, thinking with a longing as sharp as pain of the warm simulated wool blanket that the AI had given him, the comfort of a temperature in the seventies, and something besides endless white on white on white. It's Belle Reve's observation room all over again, which makes him itchier than he wants to admit. Bouncing him between bedroom and bathroom and bedroom again, restless and getting worse by the second.

There's a chance he's developing claustrophobia.

Stripping the jacket, Lex goes into the bathroom. Showers are still good things, and right now, maybe the only good thing in his life. And for a wonder, the hot water works--Lex tests it before he bothers undressing, wondering if this is a particularly malicious AI prone to turning it icy at a moment's notice.

Showers are still a good thing. The best thing, even. The body isn't too much different from his own--definitely an improvement over the thin skin and sharp bones of the Lex before--but it itches at him. This Lex hasn't shot a gun in a decade. This Lex definitely hasn't trained in years. This Lex is also running for president with Lana Lang as his chief of staff, probably, and if he thinks about this too hard, he's going to laugh himself silly.

Worse and worse and worse again. Rubbing his forehead, Lex closes his eyes, ducking under the water.

"Lex?" The door opens, and Clark comes in the door with no warning at all. The frosty glass that blocks the view doesn't feel private, probably because the man on the other side can see through it without even really trying. Lex takes a breath, turning off the faucet.

"At least you're calling me by the right name." Towel. Why hadn't he looked for a towel? "I suppose this means I'm not being turned over to the authorities for murder?"

Baiting a superhero is such a bad idea, but in this skin, he's as safe as he'll ever be. It's not like personal safety has ever stopped him before. But a towel would be good.

"They don't have a lot of facilities for bodysnatchers." Clark's voice is harder than before. "Do you want a towel?"

"You've seen the body." Thing is, Lex hasn't been naked in front of Clark since a few worlds back, and what do you know? Lust and terror are great motivators for that sort of thing. Reaching out, he pulls the door open. Clark holds out a towel, eyes averted. "That's prudish, even for you, Clark."

The only sign he gets are tightened lips. 

"There are clean clothes on the counter," Clark says, staring at the wall like hieroglyphs that he has to read. "Come out when you're done." Before Lex can frame a suitable reply--God knows what the hell will come out of his mouth this time--Clark's gone, door closed behind him.

"I hate when he does that." Well, he hates a lot of things about Clark. There's no percentage in making Clark wait, so Lex shakes out the clean sweater and soft corduroy pants. Very Clark. Maybe very him, too. Lex isn't sure. The closet looked okay, but who knows what horror lurks in the dressers.

Clark is a splash of vivid color in the bare room. Not Superman--Clark. It's all in the tilt of his head, the vulnerable line of his throat. When he turns around, Clark's eyes on him are the green of rain-wet leaves.

Reaching out, Lex waits for Clark to warily extend his hand, and drops the wedding ring into the big palm. By the look on Clark's face, it's on par with shooting Helen. "I thought--you might want to hold onto it. Until he's back."

Clark licks his lips, making a fist around the metal. "You were always big on symbols."

"All of us are, believe it or not."

"All of you?" Despite himself, he's curious. He also slides the ring into some magical pocket in the uniform--how he can manage that with something so tight, Lex can only imagine. And imagine he will. At a more opportune time.

"This is the fourth time so far." Going to the bed, Lex sits down, wishing suddenly for socks. The AI made him some wonderful ones at home. He wonders if there's any way he can make it continue to supply him after he's left.

"You couldn't find what you needed before?" Clark's not quite looking at him, trying to focus somewhere else, on anything else. It can't be easy to look at someone you think you know and realize you don't know them at all. Lex knows all about that.

"There were--complications." To say the very least. God, would he kill for socks, any socks. His toes are freezing. "Do you have the information?"

Clark's head tilts thoughtfully. "The Justice League is sending the data over the network. What do you plan to do? Memorize it in forty something hours?"

Sarcasm was never Clark's most endearing feature. "Read it and see how we can adapt it. After all, we don't have a Superman anymore."

Clark winces, eyes flickering to Lex briefly. "How--"

"Xerxes killed him."

Clark swallows, nodding. He's restless; doesn't want to be here, can't quite figure out how to leave. "He--died stopping it. That was a very Clark thing to do." 

The green eyes sharpen on him for a second, and Lex realizes that the bitterness seeped through. Great. Just fucking great. "You really weren't--friends, were you?"

Lex closes his eyes. "There aren't word for what Clark and I were. But friends? Not for a long time."

Clark nods, looking away, another pace of the room. That's just weird. Clark has never been a pacer. "Is something wrong?"

Clark turns on one red booted heel. He doesn't look happy. "We have to talk about something. Lex--our Lex, this Lex--isn't exactly the kind of person that can vanish and people not--well, notice. Especially now."

"Especially now?" Lex's mind flickers back to the morning and Lana. "Oh."

"The governor's wife's birthday is tonight. We're expected to be there." Clark shifts uncomfortably. "Lex wants the presidency. He gave up--a lot. For me. For--well, for everything. We didn't think--we really didn't think he'd be able to do it, but Lana thinks Lex can secure the nomination. I won't let anything stand in the way of that. And tonight's important. If it's going to happen, we can't afford to lose this opportunity. We can probably avoid details, but Lex *has* to be seen there, with the governor's open support. Appearance is everything."

"You want me to go?"

Clark, as far as Lex remembers, doesn't grind his teeth. Learn something new every world. "If you've been honest with me, and if the AI's right, you don't have any reason to want to screw this up. It's dinner, dancing, socializing."

"I could do that before I learned my alphabet." And an improvement over a tiny room in the Arctic, that's for sure. "I don't have any intention of causing you problems, Clark."

"You seemed okay this morning." Clark doesn't look certain, but he does look determined, which with Clark is half the battle. He'd do incredibly stupid thing when feeling particularly determined. "Do--whatever you do in your world. Except shoot people."

Lex's eyes narrow. "She deserved to die."

"A lot of people deserve to die. That doesn't mean we kill them just because we can."

Lex shrugs. "I've heard this before. Blah blah superheroing, blah blah. I'll keep all your little guests safe. But you know what I'd ask myself, before I mourn poor Helen?"

Clark is looking less happy by the second. "What?"

"What was so important that she had to lure Superman out to rescue Lex Luthor to get you away."

Clark stops, eyes wide. "What are you talking about?"

"She said she wanted Clark, but she expected Superman. No Kryptonite to stop you when you showed, nothing to really piss you off. And I'm not dead. Trust me, if Helen had wanted me dead, I would have been when she found me in the garden. There was something else she was trying to do, or trying to distract you from, and I'd start asking myself what that was."

Clark's white. "She doesn't know Clark is Superman."

"Whoever decided to kidnap me? Knows now." 

Clark is perfectly still for a few long seconds, barely breathing. "I--need to check some things. We'll leave in about an hour." 

Lex thinks he could learn to heartily hate the way Clark flashes away with very little effort.

*****

Clark's uncommunicative in the extreme, reminding Lex vaguely of his own thirty-fourth birthday party, a miserably glittering affair with too much press coverage and his wife fucking the head of security in the dining room before dinner. Clark had drank water from the bottle the entire night, hiding behind the group from The Planet. Lex remembers falling asleep between a Greek contortionist and the anchor for CNN sometime after four AM. 

That had not, in retrospect, been the worst birthday ever, but it had been enlivened by Clark bonding with champagne at some point before one and trying to sing Lois a love song influenced by the musical stylings of Trent Reznor.

But yes. Incommunicative, and accusatory, and though it may be justified, it doesn't make anything easier. Clark watches him with narrow-eyed concentration as he selects a suit, watching for treachery, or unforgivable fashion faux pas, whichever. Unnervingly familiar, actually, but it's not like Lex misses the hatred.

"Did you hate him?"

Lex jerks the tie too hard on the knot and almost strangles himself. Turning, he watches Clark study him in the mirror. The green eyes don't lose any intensity by reflection. "More than you can imagine."

Clark's eyes flicker down. It's a very Clark thing to do; poke at the wound with one fingernail, just to see it bleed, endlessly surprised at the pain that comes with it. No more sense than a toddler in cause and effect. Lex turns away, picking up a pair of shoes before leaving the closet, planting himself on the foot of the bed.

"He--hated me too." Clark's voice comes from somewhere to the left. "For a long time."

Well, fuck. Lex makes his hands concentrate on sliding on one smooth sock. "He told you that?"

The silence stretches. Turning his head, he meets Clark's eyes in the mirror. Oh. "He didn't need to." The pause stretches. "I want to talk to Lex--to my Lex."

And how many ways was that a bad idea. "I can't."

Clark turns, leaning into the dresser. Lex thinks if Clark had ever looked at him like that and meant it, he'd have had a hell of a harder time screaming him down every time Clark fucked up his projects. "You mean won't."

"I mean, can't, as in, can't." Another shoe. "Last time, too much bleedover, the AI had problems pulling me back and putting me together. I'm not risking being stuck in this world just to satisfy your curiosity."

Clark's head tilts quietly. It's more unnerving than yelling would have been. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

You don't. "If you don't trust your own AI, who can you trust?"

Clark stares back, arms crossed across his chest, and Lex turns his full attention to his shoes. "Bleedover?"

Lex almost sighs. "I'm a temporary presence here. If I get too--mixed into the one already here, I don't leave. Neither of us do. You want your Lex back, we stay separate."

Clark's mouth is a narrow white line before he turns, walking out of the room. Not very Clark, that part, and to think, only a few months ago, a moment like this would have led to violence or possible attempted homicide. Standing up, he glances at the mirror. It's almost eerie to see himself in a body that's just off of being his, just that inch beyond familiar. Everything moves almost right, and everything feels almost right, and it even looks almost right, but it's just not.

Clark behind him, watching him in the mirror, takes that extra step. Lex watches Clark come closer, lifting his left hand. The wedding band is still body-warm and feels as heavy as destiny.

"It's his body," Clark says roughly. "You're borrowing it, and this comes with it." The pause stretches, fingers tightening on his to nearly the breaking point. "If you do anything, anything at all, that could hurt him--"

"I know." Lex tries to look away, the image in the mirror more vivid than his life has ever been. "At least some things stay the same. All my spouses want to kill me."

Clark almost cracks a grin, a softening at the corners of his mouth. For a second, the hand on his loosens, then Clark's expression freezes as he steps away. Lex breathes cool, air conditioned air and forces himself to turn around.

"Ready?" Clark says stiffly, and Lex nods. "Right. Let's go."

*****

Lana is, no real surprise, an excellent politician.

Vivid in black and autumn-red, she seems to be everywhere--chatting up these Congressmen, laughing with another group, listening patiently to a Supreme Court Justice with an expression that can only be described as rapt. Her way of fixing wide, guileless dark eyes on whoever she's speaking to and isolating them in the room. Lex barely has to do anything but let Clark and Lana lead him around, shoving him in front of men he both recognizes and doesn't at all. 

"Are you okay, Lex?" Lana turns around in a whirl of color, looking at him over the rim of her glass. He thinks, a little dazedly, that she's never been more beautiful. It's been years, and the last time he saw her, it was days before her closed-casket funeral, hours before deciding to join her husband and family in Smallville, a small, lonely figure getting into a guarded car.

"Fine." He takes a drink, trying to fight the urge to ask for something stronger. In brandy bottles, even. Clark, behind him, stiffens. Clark was never a very good liar. "Long afternoon. You look lovely tonight."

She flushes into bright rose. "You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Luthor. Take Clark and go for a little walk. Dinner's not for another hour and you both look like you could use some fresh air. I'm going to go have a little chat with the chairman of the defense subcommittee." With a wink, she slips away, and not for the first time, Lex wonders what life would have been like if he had met her at a different time, a different place. Smallville poisoned everything it touched, including anything they could have been.

"Come on." Clark's arm through his is more restraint than friendly, but to outside eyes, it probably looks the same. "You're a politician for God's sake--aren't you?" Clark's voice is a study in uncertainty.

Lex shrugs, finishing his glass to leave it on the tray of a passing waiter. "Yes. But it was considerably easier to get the nomination than this."

Clark frowns, looking down at him. "Really?"

"One hack into the FBI database and a few surveillance videos." Lex almost grins at the shocked look on Clark's face. "Don't look so surprised."

"But you're--not--you're a--" Lex supposes that the habit of accusing someone of evil, especially for him to do so to Lex, is rusty.

"Only you and my biographer will ever know the truth." The delicate French doors open onto a wide balcony. It's an effort to pull away from Clark's warm presence. They're alone, a surprise at such a packed event, but then, all the power is in that room. Unless what Lana and Clark said is true--in which case, he wonders if this Lex knows everything that will mean. Everything that will change. "Are you ready for that?"

Clark crosses his arms over his chest. "Ready for what? You to do evil?"

Trust Clark to make the word sound cuter than it should be. "For the presidency. What it will mean to you both. To Superman. What will change."

Clark's expression cracks just a little, head turning to view the full room inside. "Yeah. We--haven't talked about it. But I'm--I've thought about it."

"Thought about it isn't enough." It's a long way to the ground from up here, Lex thinks, glancing down before turning completely to lean against the rails. Clark frowns in his general direction. "Don't look like that. I've been in the public eye since the day I was born. And I wasn't ready."

"Lex--"

"He's a Luthor, just like I am. We all think will is enough. That wanting it is all we need to have it."

The silence stretches between them for long minutes, broken only by the sound of their breathing. Too much time to think.

Finally, Clark cocks his head, looking at him with dark eyes. "He said something like that once." Shaking himself, Clark glances over his shoulder. "Come on. They're getting ready for the toast. Another hour, Lana should have everything in place. Think you can do this?"

Lex snorts. "In my sleep." Extending a hand, he waits for Clark's fingers to slide around his. "This should, at very least, be interesting."

*****

"..and to my good friend, Lex Luthor." The governor's smile is warm and avaricious, as only a man taking massive payoffs could smile. So many things stay the same. Lex grins, raising his glass in acknowledgement, aware Clark is watching him like a hawk. 

There's more, the practiced, soothing drone of a practiced politician's voice, but Lex tunes it out from habit, studying the room. The general lack of fear of him is different. Lex remembers the ability to walk into a room and shut down conversation with a look. Not always pleasant, admittedly, but oftentimes useful. Clark is all rapt attention, but the glazed eyes give away he's somewhere else entirely. His Clark never quite learned that trick.

"Clark." Clark jerks a little, lowering his glass to give Lex a curious look. Lex tries to think of something to say. Nothing comes to mind. "What are you thinking about?"

Clark blinks slowly and tilts his head, as if thinking. "Nothing, really. I hate these things." His eyes fix on the governor. "And I really don't like him."

"Careful. This is still public." Though Lex can sympathize. A soft whistle draws his attention, sharp and too close, like someone is standing just by his ear. Clark frowns suddenly as Lex swats idly beside his head. The open garden doors are a magnet for insects. "What--"

"Lex." Clark's voice is thready, slipping up a register, one big hand grabbing at his arm. Another whistle, sharper, and Lex looks down. Blood flowers bright red against the white of Clark's shirt, the skin around it beginning to bubble in pale green. "Lex, I--"

Clark's too heavy to hold up, and his slide to the floor drags Lex with him, one hand clutching at his stomach. Around them, people are rustling, noise growing to an intolerable pitch, and Lex catches Clark's head before it can bang down on the tiled floor. The green eyes are wide with surprise. "Clark, what--"

The third whistle hits Clark's shoulder, and Lex blinks. Gun. Here.

"Someone's shooting!" a woman's voice wails, and the room erupts into pandemonium. Here, Lex thinks blankly. Security everywhere, and somehow, someone got in here. Looking up, he spots a body vanishing out the door, security running toward them far too late. Under his watch, every one of them would be dead and buried before morning for this, but this Lex might be a little less militant with the help.

"Lex," Clark whispers, and Lex drags his eyes down. The golden skin shades to yellow, faint edges of green working up his bare throat, and his eyes go huge and wide, veins popping up on his neck. Kryptonite exposure, Lex's mind stutters. One target, another vivid thought. Three shots. All at Clark Kent, not Superman.

This is what they were doing.

Lex looks up at the armed men around him, wide backs beneath tailored suits. No one can see, but surely someone's called for a doctor. Shit. And shit. "Who do I call? Clark." His hand's smeared with blood to the wrist. Touching Clark's face slicks it in red lines. His stomach is turning over just looking. "Clark. Who? The AI? The Justice League?" Who the hell cared for wounded superheroes?

Clark's mouth is open in a panted O, green-tinged lips shivering. "I--Bruce. Bruce Wayne. He--knows. Enough. He'll help."

In fucking *Gotham*? "Anyone closer?"

Clark's eyes roll back as a convulsion rips through his body. They've got to get out of here. They've got to do it now. "You," Lex says sharply, kicking his heel into the calf of the nearest men. "And you. Get him to the limo. Now."

"Mr. Luthor?" Not bright, and this Lex has a lot to answer for.

"Now. Clark, look at me." He smears another streak across the line of his collarbone. A pool of warm blood is spreading beneath them. "Clark, where?"

The second convulsion rips through Clark like electricity, jerking him from Lex's lap. Superman can't die from this, Lex thinks inanely. We've never proved it can kill him. Hurt him, yes. Hurt him a lot, yes. Kill him, no. Never. "Clark. Stay with me here." 

"Mr. Luthor--" The man is kneeling beside him, the other already at Clarks' feet. "they're brought the car around." A tiny earpiece peeks from beneath the short hair. "Sir, if you'll--"

"Let's go." It's hard to pull away from Clark, and his fingers are sticky when they pull free of Clark's skin with a sickening sound. Standing up unsteadily, Lex is aware of the utter quiet of the room, the huddles of people on the floor who hadn't run for the door. Four men go with the two carrying Clark, guns drawn. The rest still circle him like a living wall.

This doesn't happen, Lex thinks, looking around. No one would dare attack Lex Luthor in a public place like this, shoot down his companions as if they were in the street. No one dared, had dared in years. Slowly, he wipes a stick hand on the leg of his pants, feeling the press of his phone against his palm from the pocket. Call Bruce Wayne.

"Sir, we need to leave."

Right. Clark should be in the car by now. They have to get--somewhere. The press will wonder why Clark Kent wasn't taken to the hospital. They can wonder all they want. Pulling out his phone, Lex glances up. "Let's get out of here."

*****

Bruce hadn't asked questions, replied in soft monosyllable and hanging up without an answer, which Lex supposes could be an answer in itself. The LexCorp clinic is currently as secure as the average high-security military establishment, and Lex feels ten times better armed.

Ten times zero, however, is still pretty fucking freaked out. Clark continues to convulse in the bed. No one looks particularly surprised when the IV's break except in green-tinged skin. They really don't say much at all.

Lex leaves orders that no one is allowed out of the clinic without his express permission.

"I didn't know he responded to normal drugs," Lex hears himself say. The bundle of green-black and pale yellow flesh in the bed doesn't resemble the Clark he knows. The body twitches every so often, and Lex feels himself twitch with it. 

The young LexCorp doctor makes notes at the foot of the bed. "His body is the same as any humans, minus the enhancements of a solar-fueled biology." Lex stares at the morphine dripping into the needle and tries not to focus on the restraints holding Clark to the bed. Even crippled by kryptonite, he's amazingly strong. The first set had been ripped like tissue. They brought stronger ones the next time. Ones that Lex had reason to know would work even with an unimpaired Superman. They didn't even ask how Lex knew. Maybe they thought he and Clark were into bondage games at home. "Sir, the situation is becoming critical. We should--"

"We're waiting for an expert." Bruce fucking *Wayne*? "At least until--" Until what? Clark stops breathing? Great time to start emergency procedures. Remove the bullets now, common sense states. Except they're kryptonite bullets and hollow points shatter on impact. God knows how much of that shit's in his body already. Lex has seen Clark shot, but never been around to see how he gets out of it. It'd never seemed--

\--that threatening. Clark always came back afterward, none the worse for wear. When Clark convulses again, Lex fixes his eyes on the window. Around the frame is traced reddened handprints from the press of Lex's palms to the wood.

"Sir--"

"Get out." 

The man leaves with pleasing alacrity, though Lex isn't sure if it's him or affronted dignity responsible. Coming back to the side of the bed, Lex stares down at the body that shivers with tiny convulsions every few seconds. "Clark."

Clark's so far under that he can't possibly hear Lex. The morphine dose currently pumping into his system would have killed anyone human. Even Lex. "We can't wait forever." 

Clark doesn't respond to his voice. The edges of the wound are wetly black and curling away, like something burnt and still rotting. His throat tightens just looking at it. His knees feel strangely weak and he pulls a chair with one foot, dropping into it before he falls. 

In Virginia, Clark's body had been a messy, blackened ruin before the few living Justice League members arrived to take his body, oddly careful as they pulled him from Lex's hands, still unable to believe, even then. They would take him to the Fortress, Lex's mind had reasoned, even as his fingers had slicked their way to the messy, open wound of his throat, looking for a pulse in the mass of green flesh and blackish-red fluid. The Fortress can heal anything. They'll take him there and fix him and he'll be back and he'll--he'll--

"You'll be fine," Lex whispers. Kryptonite bullets. Not his invention, but the shatter-tip filled with powdered Kryptonite had been. Easier to spread out and infect the body. Solid Kryptonite tip. Easier to pierce the invulnerable skin and turn internal organs into ribbons. "How the fuck long does it take him to get here?"

Lex finds himself staring at Clark's hand, laying at his side, a fist so tight that nails are cutting into his yellowy skin. Reaching over, Lex finds himself trying to pry the hand open, vision hazing as he leaves crusty, bloody trails over Clark's skin.

They packed the wounds in gauze, but Lex can seethe blood blackening the white in a growing circle. Bruce has to get here. He has to get here now.

"She kidnapped me to get to you." And if he hadn't been so fucking--fucking *stupid*, he would have put this together before. "She knows who you are. So does whoever the hell set this up."

Closing his eyes, Lex stares at his eyelids, painted in angry red. Clark's not going to die. Not like this. Not like last time.

"Last time?"

Bruce is the only person, other than Clark, that can move like air. That doesn't change the fact that Lex is on his feet with a gun trained at Bruce's heart before he can tamp the instinct down.

Bruce watches him with a mild expression, projecting boredom like an expensive cologne. "Old habits die hard, Lex?"

Lex forces his gun down but doesn't put it away. "He said you. Fix him."

Bruce's eyes catalogue Clark's injuries instantly. "I'll need the help of your staff--"

"Anyone you want."

"And a sterile work environment." Bruce slides his gloves off, tucking them into the cashmere coat draped over his shoulders. "You'd better wait outside, Lex. This is going to be--unpleasant."

"I want--"

The dark eyes fix on him blankly. "I don't care what you want. Send a medical team in and get out."

Tempting to raise the gun again, just on principle, but Bruce doesn't seem impressed. Turning, Lex forces himself to the door, slipping the gun into one pocket. Outside, the doctor he dismissed is waiting. "Go in and do whatever he says. Get him everyone and anything he needs."

When the door closes, Lex leans into it for a second. In this bright waiting room, clean white and smelling of antiseptics, the rich, earthy copper coming from his clothes is almost unbearable. The blood is dried in swirls and corners of dusty dark red, flaking to the floor when he rubs his hands together. The dark pants are soaked with it, sticking to his skin. Turning, he sees Mercy, standing with implacable patience by the door.

"Send someone to find who did this." His voice is surprisingly calm, compared to the frantic way his fingers try to rub the blood off. "I want to know before dawn."

She inclines her head and goes out the door, leaving Lex alone, staring at empty white walls. His fingers burn from rubbing, and if he isn't careful, he'll lose skin. He needs--needs a shower. He's still holding the gun in one sticky hand, and the temptation to use it is almost overpowering, even without a target.

Somewhere deep in his mind, the other Lex is close to mindless rage, pushing at every necessary barrier between them. The beginnings of what feels like a severe migraine pounds through his temples. Jesus, like this could possibly help. Stuffing the gun into one pocket, Lex finds a chair and rubs his temples gently, trying to force his concentration on the man inside, pushing him back down. Can't, he hopes the other Lex can hear. Dangerous. You want him back, this way won't do it. Stay back. Stay down.

"Mr. Luthor?"

Lex doesn't look up. "Get out."

"The media, sir--"

Shooting would feel good, but isn't necessarily the best idea. "I don't give a shit. Get. Out."

The feet pause, withdraw reluctantly. From the operating room, a short, hoarse yell cuts the air, jerking Lex's head up, almost dragging him to his feet. There's nothing he can do in there. There's nothing--nothing he can do here, either, except sit, and wait, and watch empty walls.

*****

It's nearly dawn when Bruce comes out.

Lex doesn't like the evaluating way Bruce watches him, likes even less that Bruce is the picture of the immaculate billionaire, not so much as a crease in the pale grey linen of his shirt, like he did nothing more taxing all night than idly chat up debutantes. The only sign of anything untoward is the bloodshot eyes that take Lex in head to toe.

"He's resting."

Lex stands up, almost stumbling before catching himself with hand on the arm of the chair. "Will he be--"

"He's resting." Bruce's head tilts in expressionless interest, like a musician with a sour note. If anyone besides Clark could figure out there was something radically different in the Lex before him, it *would* be Bruce.

"Thank you." Lex never knew that pride could actually make saying that *painful*.

Bruce's mild expression of surprise invites a fist, straight through those perfectly capped teeth, but Lex controls the impulse. Barely. "I assume you've filed a police report?"

Someone had, Lex thinks blearily. His personal assistant had come in and brought people with her, and he'd given some kind of a statement, watching the door for Mercy or Hope to return. Nothing yet. Outside, the sky is probably lightening to grey gloom, and they have yet to report back. Lex isn't sure what this Lex does when someone fails him, but they're about to find out what *he* does.

"Whoever did this will be found." Only Bruce could make that sound so ironic.

"You don't believe that any more than I do. That's why you and your little league are so popular." Rubbing his palms down his sides, Lex steps around Bruce, heading toward the closed door. "I'll find them."

"Lex." The familiar edge of warning makes Lex's teeth ache. He doesn't need this. He really, really doesn't need this. "Don't do anything that--you can't live with."

"That's a very short list," Lex answers over his shoulder, pushing open the door. A glance inside shows Clark's asleep, still that unattractively technicolored, but less in the way of rapid death. One big hand lies in a loose curl by his side. Beneath the patterned cotton gown, Lex can see the heavier bulk of bandages.

When he turns around, his head of security is talking with Bruce, gesticulating wildly. It could be the lack of sleep, but Lex is getting very tired of Bruce Wayne, no matter how useful he might be in a crisis. "I want twenty four hour security on Clark," Lex says, jerking the man's attention to himself. The glance at Bruce before the man nods earns him a sharp look and a filed away reference before he turns his attention back to Bruce. "I was kidnapped yesterday."

Bruce blinks, the equivalent of a shout of shock. "This wasn't reported."

"You can find the body down off fiftieth and Wyman. Third basement." Lex waits for Bruce's features to take on a faintly disapproving cast. "It was planned. Someone knows who Clark is."

Bruce pauses. "Has Clark reported anything--unusual--over the past week?"

How the *fuck* would I know? Lex wants to scream, but right, he's Lex, and he's supposed to. "Not that he's told me." 

Bruce's lips tighten. "Your security?"

His security is going to find out what happens when someone fails Lex Luthor. "They'll be dealt with."

"Lex--" The warning's annoyingly clear. 

"Can Clark be moved home?"

Bruce pauses, studying him. "Yes." His eyes flicker over Lex again, then back up. "You may want to change before you see him again. I'll be in town for the rest of the week." He walks away, taking his coat from a corner chair, walking out the door without another word. Lex thinks of all the ways he could have killed Bruce in the last ten years. It's soothing. 

"Sir?"

Mercy's flat voice is like music. "Who?"

She pauses, never good. Turning around, Lex watches what passes for expression on her face. "We were unable to find any traces of the assailant, Mr. Luthor." 

This--this has never happened before. Lex isn't sure how to react. 

"We will," she states, obviously taking his silence as understanding. Or permission for failure? "Sir?"

He can't just--Lex unclenches his hands at the feel of his nails cutting into his skin. "Find. Them. Whoever they are." Beneath her tan, Lex is pleased to see her skin pale. "I don't tolerate failure, Mercy. You should know that." Should. This Lex is sloppy. Sloppy and *weak*. Playing house with Clark had done something to him. "Is the house secure?"

Mercy nods jerkily. "Yes, sir."

"Arrange transportation for Clark immediately." His skin itches, and not just from the rampant incompetence. Blood flakes seem to fill the air whenever he moves. Mercy vanishes as soon as his eyes turn away, and he wonders what she's thinking.

When he opens Clark's door, Clark looks at him from behind pain-glazed eyes. "Lex." He's groggy from the medication, the only reason Lex can think of for that huge, mindless smile, as bright as sunlight. Like a magnet drawn north, Lex goes to the bed, reaching down for one big, slack hand. "I feel so shitty."

"I'm not surprised." This isn't the time to lose his calm. It's past the time--his calm is in another time zone and running at the speed of light. He won't even bother sending a search party. "You look--" Shitty. Green cast to swallowed skin, jade-black circles under his eyes like he took a round of punches, and the hand in Lex's is trembling. "You should rest."

"Can't." Clark's nose wrinkles. "Cramps. From the kryptonite." Lex glances at the morphine drip and winces. "You--you okay?"

Lex wonders if he even knows he's talking to the wrong Lex. "Fine. Just dirty." And he's not in any hurry to remind him, but for practical reasons. And some non-practical ones, too. It's been so long since Clark looked at him like this. Didn't jerk away from his touch. Being close. A concept that Lex isn't sure he's capable of anymore, but this Lex *is*. He can be this Lex for a little while, for a sick man. "We're moving back to the house. Safer." 

Clark nods dazedly, wrapping his fingers clumsily through Lex's. "Sorry."

"Sorry?"

"On your night. This happening."

Lex tightens his grip. "It's not your fault."

"Keeping you safe--this is just--I want you to have this. Everything else--worth it if you can get this. After everything else."

Lex nods, wondering what the hell Clark is about.

"Didn't want to--hurt your chances. Want this."

"It can't hurt my chances to be seen caring for my--my husband, when he's been injured." The words slide out effortlessly. Clark's smile widens, and he pulls jerkily at Lex's hand. When Lex is close enough, the green eyes close and Lex shivers at the kiss, clumsy and sweet and familiar. They've been doing this for years, Lex realizes. Years and years, enough for his body to know what he doesn't, opening his mouth to the silky-wet press of tongue, the satiny interior of Clark's mouth familiar, the feeling of Clark's other hand resting lightly on the back of his neck. Messy and badly angled and sticky. Clark tastes like antiseptic and blood and Lex doesn't care at all.

Too few short minutes, it ends, and Clark falls bonelessly into the mattress, pliable and soft beneath the rough clinic sheets. "Glad--you're okay." His voice is slurring--fighting exhaustion, or whatever sedatives and painkillers they gave him. "Wanna go home."

"Soon." Gently, Lex smoothes the dark hair back. "Soon, Clark."

With another dopey smile, Clark's eyes fall shut, with a snort like a sleepy puppy. Lex doesn't move from his seat on the edge of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Clark's chest. The Clark of his world hadn't looked this young in years. Decades. Aged by the world, maybe, by being a superhero, by being a reporter, a husband to a driven woman, a son who lost his father too early. That's not all it was, though.

Touching the dark hair, Lex thinks of Clark's shuttered face in memory, years and years of it, the Clark that he'd hated so much it had been like acid, corroding everything it touched. It had never occurred to him until now that it ate at Clark just as surely, just as viciously.

In all those years of hating Clark, wanting to hurt him as deeply as he'd hurt Lex, he'd never guessed the hate would almost be enough to do it.

This Clark hadn't had a Lex who knew him too well, who could strike wounds that could never fully heal, be a living reminder of failure, a blighted friendship, and the thousand wrong choices they both made. Clark's sleep-smile widens as Lex strokes his hair, the rhythm a sharp counterpoint to the maelstrom in his head.

There'd been a time he'd have done anything not to hurt Clark, and an eternity after he'd done nothing else. This Lex had done something--said the right thing, like Lex never had, done the right thing, like Lex never quite could--and history had changed.

"What was different?" Lex whispers, watching Clark's face. He could look inside, but that's a place he can't risk. It's not--relevant to the mission. It's not--necessary. But God, he wants to know. 

Clark shifts in his sleep, hand tightening on his again, and Lex wonders if he has the strength to pull away again.

*****

The house is ready for them when they arrive. Lex approves of the professional demeanor of his security, but that doesn't tempt him to relinquish either gun he's carrying anytime soon. He glances over the reports with no idea what they tell him and takes a briefing without losing forward momentum up the stairs. People are *everywhere*--normal staff, what he speculates is his personal assistant and her assistants, medical personnel, and someone in LexCorp PR, unmistakable with the sharp look of someone trying to re-spin the situation in a positive light. Clark's set up in their--his bedroom. A doctor and two nurses are moved into spare rooms down the hall. Someone is background checking every clinic staff member who was in the building when Clark was brought in, though Lex wants to think that his counterpart had enough common sense to keep track of anyone who would know who and what Clark was.

Mercy and Hope stay out of his line of sight as much as possible, though that's not much--he can feel them even when he can't see them. He finds himself studying them, looking for differences from the ones he knew. In his world, Mercy and Hope wouldn't have failed on an order like that. No matter how difficult it was. 

Clark's probably as stoned as a teenager who first discovered weed. It's charming on some level, since Clark's flings with RedK hadn't ever gotten him into this state of doped up euphoria. He mumbles things in no Earth language into the ceiling and smiles so much that Lex thinks he might need sunglasses soon.

Staying in here is an insupportable idea, but going back out to be questioned seems just as bad. Five stations have set up camp outside the iron gates. They all want statements. 

"Sir?"

The assistant, Lex thinks--his own back home had died in a bloody mess outside LexCorp headquarters, gun clutched in one hand.

"If they want a statement, they can wait." She backs off a step with a nod and a nervous smile. Nothing like his. Another jerky nod, and she quickly goes back out the door with a nervous glance back, like she suspects him of ulterior motives. He suspects himself. 

"Don't--scare them." Clark's voice is hoarse from the bed. Lex snaps his head around to see clearer jade eyes fixed on him. "She's--not used to this you."

Lex licks his lips. "Another day or so, she'll have her normal boss back. Until then, she can deal. How are you feeling?" His palms are sweating. It's just strange.

"Stoned, but okay." Clark shifts uncomfortably on the bed. "Bruce said it'd take a few days to work out of me."

"This has happened before?"

Clark's smile twists. "Here, you designed that bullet. Works *really* well. Very popular with the less savory parts of society."

Well, shit. "There, I did too. You never seemed sick after, though."

Clark grimaces. "Superman takes a few days off. Never got three of them, though." His body trembles beneath the blankets. "I--thanks."

"It's against my interests to get you killed." Or stand around watching you die. Lex closes his eyes, wondering if he should eat something. Nausea's rising sweet and familiar at the back of his throat, a slow burn of bile. He'd thrown up so much at the hospital it had been streaked with blood. "You--"

"Hey." One hand gropes for his; Clark's being comforting? It seems the strangest thing of all. "I'll be okay. A few days to flush me out, no permanent harm done." The green eyes are barely open now. The drugs pulling him back under. "Get--get some rest. You can access the AI from the computer in your office, so--won't lose anything." His voice drifts off. "Sorry."

Of course, Clark would worry about that. Lex nods to the sleeping face, then forces himself to walk away. He doesn't think anyone would be stupid enough to try and talk to him now, no matter how desperate they are, so he goes back out. Still a mill of people he doesn't know, but has to assume aren't enemies. It's that or sit at the foot of Clark's bed, gun in his lap, waiting for the next attempt.

When he doesn't even know where the hell the *first* one came from.

"Who wants you dead?" Lex asks, and maybe it's a stupid question; Superman has enemies, Christ, does he have enemies and to spare--but few would do it like this, fewer still would have the brains to figure out the connection between Clark and Superman. And fewer than that would know-- "Clark. Who?"

The green eyes open slow and heavy. "I--there are a lot." Almost instantly, he's under again, and maybe it's kinder to let him sleep, let the drugs hold off the pain. When he'd created those bullets, he'd been going for maximum damage. Apparently, he succeeded a hell of a lot better than even he knew.

Lex grits his teeth, trying to force himself to leave the room. Security can't protect Clark, though--not his, not these idiots, probably copies of the idiots he hired in Smallville, before he learned the best protection is terror of failure. Settling back in the chair, Lex loosens the holster on his thigh and sets himself to wait.

The information, after all, isn't going anywhere. And neither is Clark.

*****

After a while, he brings up his laptop, settling by Clark's bed. He doesn't trust security, who don't have a healthy fear of what pissing off the great Lex Luthor would cause.

And God, he needs something to *do*.

Memorizing data isn't a task that requires much work--Lex's memory is erratic, but his learning curve is high enough to make up for it. It tells him what he knew before; for this, they need Clark, Clark's power, Clark's gifts, and whatever the hell Lionel did to control Xerxes isn't here, either.

Though in retrospect, maybe that was Clark, too.

Clark isn't getting better, pale-green face and sweat-slicked skin, shivering and shaking at turns, and Lex finds himself lingering by the bed, watching the slow, uneven breathing. Clark died like this, in the end, Kryptonite poisoned, invulnerability breached, a slow trickle of life seeping away into burned and bloodied dirt. Lex doesn't know how long he knelt in that field, but he thinks it might have been longer than he thought, to remember so much.

He's not getting better, and that makes Lex wonder, pressing his hand to Clark's forehead, almost shuddering at the cold. Clark is never cold.

Far beneath, the other Lex is *pushes*, an almost physical jolt. Lex jerks his hand back. The rage is bright hot, flowing just beneath his consciousness, searching hungrily for a way through. Get to Clark. Get out of here. Protect.

But not kill, he thinks, arrowing the thought down, wondering if the other Lex can hear him. You won't kill for him, you won't kill to protect him. I will.

You never protected anyone but yourself.

Lex's hands grab for the arms of the chair, pulling his consciousness back into this reality, nailing it into straight, cold floors and wooden chairs and bright sunlight, spilling through the thin wooden blinds. Here. Not there. Not--

"Lex?" Clark's voice is so low that Lex almost misses it. Pushing himself up, Lex moves closer. The green eyes are glazed. "It's--can you turn on the lights? I can't see."

Lex looks around the sunny room, stomach clenching. "You're just tired."

The sound could be, in another world, a laugh. Lex's hand clenches on the blankets. "I really am. I--feel weird. It's not like--it's like I want to go to sleep."

"Sleep's good." His hands shake. He doesn't dare try to touch Clark, no matter how much he wants to.

The corner of Clark's mouth twitches. It could be a smile, in another time. "It's warm there. It's so cold here--"

It was hot in Virginia, the sun beating down on them while Lex tried to think when thinking wasn't enough, when doing wasn't enough, when will wasn't enough, would never be.

Clark had said he was cold.

"Stay here." With me, he almost says, but those words hadn't stopped Clark from leaving, hadn't paused the way the light had faded from the burned green eyes. One second, there, and the second, like a candle, he'd been gone. "You can't leave."

Clark's eyes drift slowly shut. "Just--resting. A little. I'm so tired, Lex. I'm never tired."

"You'll be fine." He'll be fine. This isn't there. He has doctors and monitors and IV's and whatever other magics can be performed when your worst, most implacable enemy is your lover, all of Lex's attention turned on making sure, being sure, that nothing could ever hurt Clark. "When you're better, we'll find them, Clark. We'll find whoever--"

"No." Clark's lashes flutter open. "No, Lex, you--we don't--" Lex hadn't even realized he was holding Clark's hand, until the bones grind into his, a parody of his former strength. "We don't, Lex. You remember?"

Remember. No. Pretend? Yes. "This is different."

"It's never different. It's what men--men like us, we have to be." Clark falls back a little into the pillows, breathing shallow and fast. Too much effort, maybe. But his hand holding Lex's is unbreakable. "We can't--we don't--"

"Rest, Clark--"

"We *don't*. It's so easy to slip, it's so easy--" Clark pants out a breath, body tensing. "You promised. We promised. That we'd be better. Only way. It's the only way."

"It's *not*." And maybe this is where Lex and Clark had always come to, a place where they could never meet and never talk. Lex believed in the safety of power, and the will to use it, as Clark never had. "Clark--"

"It's all sacred or nothing is." A hectic flush spreads neon over the pale skin, like a sunburn. "We are, they are, you can't, you have to--Lex, you have to remember--"

Clark finally relaxes, the frantic energy burned away, and Lex feels the fingers loosen involuntarily, eyes fluttering shut. A pink tongue licks dry lips, but even that effort seems too much. "You won't." The green-white lips curl again, and this time it is a smile. "I know you. I love you. I--remember."

"Rest." The room seems to compress, like something's removing all the air. "When you're better, we'll talk."

"I'm--cold."

Lex reaches out to pull up the blankets. He's shaking so badly that he drops them, clumsily tucking them around the thin body. Clark isn't--Clark *won't*--

A knock at the door interrupts him, and Lex closes his eyes, taking a breath. Slowly, he makes himself pull away, hating how effortlessly Clark's hand slides from his, hitting the bed with a dull thud.

Going to the door, he automatically slides the gun into one hand. He's not sure if he cares who's on the other side, as long as he gets to use it.

But it's just Mercy, looking tense. Maybe this Lex doesn't ride her like he does.

"We found them."

*****

This house, Lex thinks, looking around, wasn't ever meant to plan assassination. He misses his laboratories and the LexCorp board rooms with an ache that's almost physical. Clark's mother's handmade curtains--he can so see Martha Kent in both design and fabric--don't lend themselves well to murder. Nothing about this bright, sunny room has anything to do with LexCorp and everything Lex has created.

The round dining room table is spread over with documents, pictures, bios, and five laptops. The tablecloth's a discarded pile of fabric in the corner, and Lex's eyes keep darting to it, the tatted edges, the well-worn look of something loved and cared for.

"It's one of the anti-mutant groups," someone tells him, pushing a laptop in front of him. "They've been vocal against you holding public office."

Ah, the usual. Psychos. Lex is almost disappointed. "I'd be a target."

"Destruction of the Justice League has always been their primary objective," says Mercy from behind him. "After LexCorp cut off funding--"

Lex turns in his chair, almost opening his mouth to deny it--but one, back in the day, he'd funded some fairly crazy causes that promised him Superman's head on a platter, when he was still too angry, grieving too deeply, to think, and two, *this* Lex, not him. The dramatic irony of Clark being wounded by someone Lex used to contribute money to will never stop being funny, and he'll never be able to laugh about it like he should. "It was a trap, then." To confirm what they'd probably guessed--crazy, he knows, never equals stupid except on television.

"Sir?"

Lex doesn't feel like relating the kidnapping, though it argues that this group of security is going to be on the unemployment line or six feet under after this is all over. "I want them dead."

There's that feeling again--the dissonance, the way this Lex does things, the way they keep eyeing him. A few long moments of silence pass. "Sir, Mr. Kent--"

"Doesn't have any say in this. Make it fast, make it messy, and make it before sundown." By then, he'll be out of this body, and he doesn't trust that other Lex to do it right. God knows what nonsense he's picked up. "Tell me when you find them." Getting up, Lex tries to control the restlessness, almost breaking a pen in his hurry, chair knocking backward in unforgivable clumsiness. Needing movement, action, *something*. He feels the eyes on him--of course he's worried, his husband is dying upstairs, of course he'll be acting strange, of course he'll do what he'd never countenance otherwise, of course, of course, of fucking *course*--

"Get out."

They move with gratifying alacrity, papers whisked away, laptops folded, bodies disappearing from the room in a tumble of bureaucratic limbs and annoying voices. Walking to the window, Lex stares at the front gates. He can't see them from here, but outside, the entire world seems to be congregating, waiting. A different life, and Clark and Lois would be there, too, Clark's hard-won compassion tempering Lois' ruthless drive. 

He grew up, Lex thinks suddenly, remembering the last time he saw him--really *saw* him, before Xerxes. Somehow, somewhere in Lex's mind, Clark had stopped growing up at eighteen, stopped changing, and that's where Lex left him. It was easy hate an eighteen year old, self-righteous asshole. Easier than accepting that Clark had had years to learn to be the man who patrolled the skies.

Ask yourself, he got better, and you never stopped being twenty-six. Think about that one for a second.

"Sir?"

This body doesn't have the instincts to reach for a weapon when startled, and suddenly, Lex doesn't want to bother. Turning, he looks at his assistant. "Yes?"

"He's awake, sir." Her face is too expressionless, too controlled, and Lex's feels something heavy settle in his stomach. "He's asking for you." She pauses, breaking for a second for a hard swallow. "His doctor also wishes to speak to you."

Lex nods slowly, skin feeling tight. "Tell them I'm coming." She pauses, obviously not hearing the dismissal, then turns clumsily and walks out, letting the door half-shut behind her.

*****

"Kryptonite poisoning." The doctor looks like he'd rather be anywhere than here--a hospital, perhaps, where he can escape, not this private house. Lex looks at him blankly, struggling to remember his name.

"He's recovered before."

The doctor pauses. "Refined ore is very--rare, sir." Perhaps, one might say, no one but a LexCorp employee or someone Lex really liked at one point would have it. "The general public has rarely had access to it, and its effects are far more--unpredictable. And damaging."

Lex blinks slowly. "I don't understand. You've filtered the substance from his blood. He--"

"The damage was widespread, Mr. Luthor." With a rough swallow, the cool blue eyes turn away, fingers fiddling with the pen, the paper, the keys of the laptop. "We've done everything possible, but--" He pauses, clearing his throat again. "His body isn't responding to treatment."

"Then you haven't done enough."

"He was exposed to higher levels of kryptonite ore than we've ever seen, sir. Internal organs were compromised." The doctor pauses, eyes flickering down to the paper. "His own healing cannot--keep up."

That doesn't even make *sense*.

"You're saying he's dying."

The doctor's eyes close. "His chances are--" Another hard swallow, and then the blue eyes open, staring into Lex's. "Yes, sir."

No. "Mr.Wayne--"

"He was consulted last night and this morning. We can do nothing more than--make him comfortable."

The Fortress, Lex thinks. The Justice League. A miracle. Something. "I don't believe it." It's just kryptonite, for God's sake. It hurts. It damages. Lex shoots it at Clark five times a week during a *good* month. There's moaning and complaining and some fast disappearing act after, but Clark always gets up after. He's always back after. It's always-- 

From the other room comes the sound of something breaking, a woman's startled cry. Turning his back on the doctor, Lex feels like he's walking through honey. The door of their room looms ahead, half-open, a girl backing out clutching a clipboard. When she turns around, her face is white.

"Get out," Lex tells her, pushing her aside, barely seeing her stumble to the carpet. Opening the door, Lex watches in surreal shock as two nurses hold Clark down as strangely blurry convulsions jerk his body. A man against the wall holds a cloth to his bleeding nose. There's a dent in the white paint above him. One of Clark's arms slams out, knocking the surprisingly sturdy woman across the room. Lex doesn't see her open her eyes after impact.

The room smells of vomit and blood and things even less aromatic. Lex gets a knee on the bed and Clark's arm down before a third nurse bites the dust. She doesn't even spare him a glance. "What's happening?" she whispers, eyes trained on Clark's green face.

Seizures, Lex's mind supplies, wrist and arm and forehead reminding him. Convulsions, getting rougher and less violent and more exquisitely painful, until the end, when everything just stops. "We need restraints." 

She nods, glancing behind her quickly. "David. Restraints." She gives Lex an uncertain look. What the hell good are restraints on the strongest man in the world? Cut with kryptonite will only increase Clark's pain, and Lex will see every nurse in the house dead before he'll even consider it.

Lex feels the hand on his wrist. "Move your hand, just a little. It'll have to be direct--he jerked the IV out." A hand on his shoulder steadies him, riding out Clark's next lurch, and he watches as the needle slips into skin that acts almost human, taking it in. Invulnerability breached, Lex thinks, feeling nauseated at the simple sight. There's nothing horrible in this except the unnaturalness of it. It's spreading, the poisoning, and taking Clark's invulnerability with it. His resistance to--everything. Anything. 

Clark relaxes instantly, falling limp. Neither Lex nor the nurse move for a few seconds, then she slowly slides her feet back to the floor. A glance shows greenish-yellow bile and blood flecking the front of her uniform, and black bruises are forming on her arms. There's a good chance she'll have a black eye.

The hand on his shoulder steadies him, and Lex looks over his shoulder at the calm doctor. Like he sees this all the time.

"What--"

"A sedative," the doctor says calmly, tucking the bottles back in his coat. "And a muscle relaxant. They should keep him comfortable for a little while."

Lex's mind blanks. "Human pharmaceuticals don't work on Clark."

The man looks back blankly. "They do now."

*****

They call twice--once on finding a lead, once on narrowing down the location to--of all imbecilic things--the main building, their headquarters, and what kind of assassins go back to headquarters after? Ones who don't think they'll be caught.

From beside Clark's bed, Lex nods like they can see him, makes the right noises, and shuts down the phone, looking at the too-thin hand resting on the bed, close enough to touch.

The doctor had told him, but there are things that no one knows about Superman. Lex is the leading expert on dying Kryptonians, though, and knows what they don't. The body begins to break down, the kryptonite destroying him from the inside out, dissolving muscle and burning nerves away, liquefying internal organs, until the slow, painful breakdown of brain tissue, and nothing will be left of that nova-bright mind but mulch. The AI had let him see, and he was stupid enough to ask. What was incinerated in the Fortress hadn't resembled anything that had ever been alive.

Clark's half-conscious, edging toward delirium, soft words of long-ago conversations drifting in and out of time. Lex wonders how he feels. It's shock, he tells himself. Horror, maybe, that anyone should suffer through this. Disbelief, powerful and overawing, that *kryptonite* could do this, the logical culmination of prolonged, internal exposure, that this is the fate he had sentenced Clark to so many times in his mind that he couldn't count the number. It's the slowest way to die he's ever seen.

"Lex," Clark murmurs, cracked lips parting in a smile, green and red fluid tricking from the corner of his mouth. Lex picks up a soft cloth from the bedside table, wiping it away carefully, almost freezing at the cracking of the skin beneath his touch, like ancient, dry paper.

What the AI had burned hadn't looked like it could ever have been something living, but it had been. It had been Clark.

"I'm here." His voice is too hoarse. He should get something to drink, perhaps. The nurses had been dismissed downstairs. The doctor had told him to call if he was needed, but the only need he could meet would be for Clark's pain. "Clark."

"Can you flip on the lights? I can barely see you." 

Clark's eyes fix on some point far above Lex's head. Lex shivers, even with sunlight pouring over him from the window. "In a second. Your eyes need to rest. Just rest, Clark. Are you cold?"

"A little." His skin feels like ice. One big hand gropes out, covering his on the bed. Lex can feel every bone. Slowly, Lex reaches up with his other hand, pushing back soft dark hair. "You know. You always. Always say I need. To take a vacation." Clark smile again, and Lex carefully wipes away the fluid, edged in black this time. There's a strange smell, almost sweet, drifting through the room. "God, I'm tired."

"I know." Stroking the dark hair again, Lex settles on the edge of the bed. "You're going to be okay."

"Yeah." Clark's voice is almost a sigh. "I think--I was thinking."

"About?"

Clark licks his lips with a dry tongue, almost white. It's happening so fast, and so slow. Lex is careful with the hand in his, trying not to grip too hard. He could break Clark's bones like eggshells now. "How I--if I could get back the time we lost."

Far beneath Lex's skin, the other Lex stirs, then moves, hard and sharp, stabbing upward, a blinding pain like a needle stabbed through his eye. It's like--like none of the others. Not a blend of two, just suddenly, *there*. Holding Clark's hand, watching through their eyes, and his grief isn't like anything Lex has ever touched. "You're going to be fine," he says in Lex's voice, his own voice, touching Clark's face with years of familiarity, hand shaking. "Just stay with me."

Clark's eyes search the air around them. "I can't see you."

"I'm here."

Clark nods slowly, eyes feathering slowly shut. On the other side of the bed, a monitor starts to cluck. Reaching blindly, Lex finds the sensor on Clark's chest and jerks it off. Skin goes with it, papery and pale. He ignores it. "I have so much to do."

"You can do it later." 

It's like being a voyeur, sickening and frightening and the other's pain is like a knife, twisting in his guts with every slowing breath. The phone at his hip rings. Lex ignores it. 

"Lex--" Clark's mouth barely moves, just bare air. Lex leans closer, and the smell is almost overwhelming, sickly sweet, like something slowly rotting. "When we find out who did it. I'll go with you. To arrest them."

Arrest them? Their lives are measurable in minutes. "Clark--"

The thin, fragile fingers tighten, barely enough to give pressure. "You promised. You said--"

Jesus Christ, and Clark is sitting here, arguing.

"You said that it all was. Everyone has to. Have the chance. To be. Better."

Lex's breath lets out in a slow hiss. "This is different." These aren't last fucking words. "Clark--"

"It has to be. Lex. You--you and me--we made history change. We made it better. We did. And you will--" Clark's voice trails off. "I'm so cold."

"Shh. Rest." The words are thick in his throat. The phone rings again. Lex ignores it, touching one too-sharp cheekbone, eyes on Clark's slowly paling face. He's like marble, perfectly carved, almost as lifeless. "You'll feel better soon. It'll be warm again."

Clark's eyes close, little smile curling up the cracked corners of his mouth. "You always make me warm."

The big hand goes limp. Slowly, Lex touches the bare chest, eyes closed, every nerve concentrated on the heartbeat beneath thin skin that he can no longer feel.

The pull of the AI is familiar, but for the first time, Lex pulls back against it. The other Lex is still, watching Clark's face. Like a snuffed candle, Clark gone as easily as any life that Lex has ever taken. He can see all their faces in a blend of features and colors. The phone rings sharply, and this time, Lex reaches to pick it up.

The AI pulls again, stronger, and Lex flicks the phone on, holding it to his ear. The body's already growing distant, and the voices on the other end are muffled, but he knows they're telling him they have them, and that they're ready, and they're waiting for his word.

The other Lex's voice is slow and steady, giving what Lex never could have. This Lex can make promises and can keep them. This Lex had Clark.

Lex lets go.

* * *


	9. Interlude Four

He's out of the room the second he feels his body again.

"Did you discover--"

Lex stops in the bathroom, stomach clenching over food that this body had eaten only minutes before in this time. He barely makes it to the toilet.

"Do you require--"

"Shut the fuck *up*!" Lex leans against the cool pseudo-porcelain, eyes closed. The room is too warm, and still, he can't stop shaking. He thinks he can still smell it, the slow sweetness of encroaching rot, permeating his skin even though this skin was never near it. Another spasm, bringing up bile the color of kryptonite. "Christ."

The AI is silent, but silence doesn't mean it's not present, watching, probably calculating what the hell could have caused this reaction, wondering perhaps at the emotions of humans. He's always wondered what the AI can feel, if it does, if--

Slumping toward the floor, Lex's fingers grip the toilet seat hard enough to make his fingers ache. "How long?"

The AI's voice, strangely, seems wary. "You were in that universe for ten minutes, current time--"

"No." His voice sounds scratchy, like speaking through broken glass. "In that field. With him. Watching." He doesn't remember, and he does. He remembers it in that bed, how he could recognize every symptom, know when--know how--

"It was several hours before they found you." The gentleness surprises him. "They did not find it easy to remove you."

Lex closes his eyes. "You didn't tell me. You didn't show me that." It hurts to breathe. "I didn't remember." He's lost memories before, but God, he wishes he could have lost this one. "I watched him die." And rot, on that burned out grass. 

"Yes."

Lex shifts to his knees, a lifetime of discipline snapping into place, but a thousand years can't make his hand stop shaking. "I watched it. Him. Die." Again, he doesn't say. I saw it and I remembered it, and I can't--I can't-- "He died."

There's only silence for a few seconds. "He lived first."

"What the *fuck* does that mean?" Lex can't imagine being that other Lex, feeling--this. But after a life together, all fences mended. He can't imagine how that Lex would feel to be him, after a life where no fence can ever be mended, no amends ever made. "I hated him."

"I know."

"Everything else was burned out before he even *made* you."

Softer. "I know."

All fucking dust, nothing else. There had been nothing left of Clark in that room, just a body. "What did he--what was the fucking point? There--there he took fucking *bullets*. He wasn't saving the fucking world. He was the target of a fucking assassin." With bullets Lex designed. With an assassin that could have been him, one world over. He never knew, not really, what those bullets did, not like that. Or maybe, he never would have loaded one gun with them. "I--" The rise of nausea's as slow and inevitable as the tide, and just as irresistible. Lex leans over, tasting blood this time. It's fitting. It's real. "I watched him die. He didn't die for anything."

"There was more than that." The voice seems closer, almost in his ear. Something to do with physics, or just his imagination, and it's wrapping around him like a blanket. "How he lived his life. The choices he made. The man he became. The end is always death for humans. But before, there's a universe to be lived."

"Containing multitudes," Lex whispers, eyes closed as he hits the button, flushing the toilet, leaning against the wall, the tile cooling his body. "Sanctimonious bullshit. He was human."

"Yes. In this, he was very human."

Slowly, testing his stomach with every movement, Lex gets to his feet, stumbling toward the shower. The water is perfect, hot and clean, washing away the smells of vomit and cold sweat and fear. Leaning against the tile, Lex lets himself sink down, water beating on every exposed inch of skin, tasting salt on his lips.

He doesn't know if he cried for Clark in that field, or if he did at his bed in that world, but he does now.

*****

The AI watches him.

The next jump is in twenty four hours--despite the ease of the jump, the AI wasn't risking Lex's neurons getting fried, or something more technical, and less picturesque, grounding him for a day. Strange things keep showing up in his room--ancient Kryptonian literature, for one, and a history of the last years of the race, which as far as Lex can tell, has no practical value, but there it is, and Lex has nothing better to do.

It's surprising, how much his Kryptonian's improved, just from all the time he spent examining the technology that would never work to stop Xerxes. "I can almost understand this."

"Your intelligence quotient is extremely high." He can almost feel its amusement. "Your exposure has been sufficient to improve your contextual understanding over the last few weeks."

Weeks. It feels like years, and like hours. Lex is losing track of time. It would be easy, disturbingly easy, to curl up here, fuck the world, fuck Xerxes, and fuck the human race, too. Easy, like sleeping forever would be easy, like taking a bullet between his teeth would be easy, like finding out first hand if a mutant's body is as vulnerable to kryptonite laced bullets as Clark's had been. Easy.

"Lex Luthor."

Lex jerks his head, up, realizing the book slipped out of his hands a long time ago. "I--" he stops, wondering why he's explaining himself to the AI. "I was thinking."

"Your heartrate and respiration increased rapidly. I was concerned you would suffer another seizure."

"There weren't any--complications this time."

If the AI could snort, it would have, but it came through in voice all the same. "The damage still lingers. Perhaps you should rest."

"I've *been* resting. I haven't done anything *but* rest." He's hasn't had this much unstructured time since he left Smallville. It's eerie, really. No reports to read, minions to control, people to manipulate, deals to make. Just books, and the Fortress, and this room, and more books, growing strangely more familiar every second. 

And Clark. Always, always fucking Clark. "He died. There."

"So I gathered." Wary again. Lex supposes his earlier bathroom activities hadn't given it any reassurance on his stability. 

"He was assassinated. I funded them. He did. Before. They were together." And now, they're not. Lex thinks of the man he left grieving on that bed. "I--felt him. I pitied him. He pitied me. It was a big internal pity party of two, really. He lost his lover. I--didn't. I just lost an enemy."

"It must be difficult, to lose someone you love."

Lex breathes. "I didn't--love him."

The AI's voice is softly curious. "Then why did you assume I was speaking of you?"

The little *bitch*. Lex wishes there was a face he could turn to glare at, but it's only his room, pale cream walls and neat bed, rug, closet, and a pile of books. "It wasn't--" He doesn't need this. "He's dead. If he'd lived--here--nothing would have changed. We weren't--good as friends." Though apparently, anywhere else, they seem to be doing just *great*, give or take a homicidal Clark and a psychotic Lex in the mix. All in all, things could have been far worse.

"Everything changes," the AI answers, almost lightly, and Lex remembers a Clark saying that to him once upon a time. "That's the nature of living, of life. It's change."

"I don't." 

"Or you choose not to. That's a kind of change in itself." The AI sounds amused again. "You are tired, Lex Luthor. Your brain patters are showing the first stages of exhaustion."

"My body isn't *doing* anything. Hasn't done anything." But it feels like it did.

"Your mind thinks it did, however. Kal--often did not understand when he was tired. His body did not--function thus. He did not grow tired. But his mind did."

Yes, day in and day out world-saving, from flash floods and earthquakes to crawling the sewers of a thousand cities to save helpless kittens--that would be exhausting. Even if his body could go on forever, his mind-- "Poor method of adaptation to our planet. The body never needing sleep, so the person never thought to do it." That could--drive you crazy. There were entire fields of study on sleep deprivation and its effects on the mind. Lex wonders what it must be like, living every moment aware and awake, alive to everything, all the time. It couldn't be easy. Not for Clark, who'd thought of himself as human for too long to ever truly be as alien as he was. To be that different, in that most fundamental way, one of the few things all humans had in common that he no longer needed, perhaps could not even do. "Did he come here for that? To sleep?"

"Sometimes." The AI's voice is very soft. "Sometimes, he would come here, and I would help him to rest."

Lex imagines Clark for a second, stretching out on a bed, desperate for something, anything, to slow the world down around him. There've been days Lex has done it--days when valium was his drug of choice over whiskey, falling into exhausted, induced slumber, only to awaken too soon, too fast, throwing off the cobwebs too quickly. "I--can imagine." A little. His body's differences had saved him in so many ways, but it had taken away something, too.

Restless, Lex stands up, circling the room. He wants to do something, and he's not sure what. "They--there, the answer was the same. We need Clark." Or another Kryptonian, anyway, and they just don't have any of those lying around. "If he'd--" Lex stops. "He wasn't ready. He was--" Tired. Exhausted from trying to save his friends, save the world, finally, save Lex. It was stupid. "It was too much. The others that survived were ready for it.. Clark wasn't."

The AI doesn't say anything to that. Lex tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling high above his head. Clark came here, to this place, to think. To rest. To be himself, whoever the hell that had ended up being in the end. And who was that, anyway?

Pushing a book with his toe, Lex studies the cover, some vaguely post-modernish art of the stick-figure variety. Maybe the cutting edge of Kryptonian culture in the end. "Do you miss him?"

The entire Fortress seems to pause for that, a feeling of--surprise? Curiosity? Unsurety? Lex can't tell. "Miss him?"

"Kryptonians were the most advanced alien race we've encountered. And the most sophisticated. We're no where near having the sophistication to produce an AI like you. I've wondered. So yes, do you feel? Miss Clark?"

"I notice his lack, yes." The AI's voice is thoughtful. "The way humans define--emotion, personality--is very different from Kryptonian. In your language, yes, I 'miss' him."

"Are you--" The word 'alive' comes to mind, but it seems silly to say it. "How did Kryptonians view you?"

"As a slave."

Lex swallows. His voice doesn't need to be bitter for Lex to hear the bitterness. "Not an equal."

"Flesh was the prerequisite for equality--for humanity, you might say." Still that blankness. "Or so I have come to believe. I wasn't--in existence, as I am now, on Krypton. When I was programmed, I was capable of adaptation and learning, but not--" The AI stops, like it's searching for the right word. "I was not self-aware. But my studies of Krypton for Kal have led me to believe my place there would have been as any other machine that assists the race survive." The curiosity is back. "Why do you ask?"

"You remind me of Clark."

"I take that as a compliment." Now amusement. "Humanity is no different. Your race would view me as a resource, an intelligent one, but not as an equal, with the same rights and privileges--"

"We contain multitudes," Lex says, closing his eyes briefly. It does remind him of Clark, achingly. The same bone deep idealism and skepticism all at once. The man who believed he could save the world, but that the world would never save him. "Some would yes. But some of us don't--you seem real."

"Even without flesh?"

"Clark was the most human man I ever met, and he wasn't human. It's not flesh that makes the man." Restless, Lex gets up, pushing a book out from under his foot. "You contain all the culture of Krypton, but you've been here a long time. Most of what is your life? So how do you think of yourself?"

"Ah." The AI pauses, thoughtful, and Lex can almost hear it thinking. "Kal--taught me a great deal."

"How did he see you?"

"As a friend."

Lex swallow, trying to stop the envy that wells up, sudden and painful. "That's very Clark."

"Kal had exceedingly egalitarian views of machines that mimic human thought--"

"Bullshit. He saw what you are." 

"How do you see me?" Curiosity again. Something else, indefinable and almost wistful. "A machine? A man?"

"Alive." Lex snickers softly, almost feeling the surprise. "We contain multitudes, humanity. I would have used you, or destroyed you if I could, but not because I didn't think you were alive."

"That is comforting." It's laughing at him now. "Kal did not like what he learned of Krypton. When I was first--activated here, when he built this place--he said the first sign that I was attempting to manipulate him, he would deactivate me and leave me for scrap. His phrasing was most picturesque."

"From what I know now, he had some bad experiences with early Kryptonian technology." To say the least.

"Jor-El was not a stable personality, even in life." The sound the AI makes is suspiciously similar to a sigh. "He was--very driven, as most of Krypton was in the end. Kal was the last of Krypton, and he'd hoped that Kal would--"

"Make more Kryptonians?" Lex tries to imagine the genetic manipulation needed, a vision of Alexander Kent's tiny, screaming face vivid for a moment. 

"Refound his people, yes."

"Take over the human race? Or exterminate it?"

"I'm sure Jor-El would have been content with enslavement." There's a definite note of old bitterness now.

Picking up the book, Lex flips it open. The more he reads, the more he picks up. Who knew Kryptonian romance novels were the way to learn a language? "I suppose that's not possible anymore."

The AI is silent. Lex lets the book fall closed. "Is it?"

"This facility continues to carry Kal's genetic material." Very reluctantly. "It is possible, though not at the current level of technology enjoyed by the Fortress. Kal did not utilize or allow utilization of the most sophisticated level of technology available in my databanks. Nor did he approve of genetic experimentation."

No, Clark *definitely* would not. "You could recreate him." Something clicks in Lex's head, but not quite enough for Lex to nudge out the idea for mulling.

"I could recreate his genetic profile. Kal is dead."

And that is that. But-- "We need a Kryptonian. To stop that thing. You never said--"

"To create a viable Kryptonian would take years. Assuming anyone in this world had the knowledge of cloning and gene splicing to recreate Kal's physiology."

"Oh." And it wouldn't be Clark. Never Clark. Someone who looks like him, breathes like him, might even be so like him it would make Lex ache, but it wouldn't be *him*. Not really. Not their shared history, not the boy who grew up in Smallville, not--

But in another world, he'd hybridized human and Kryptonian DNA. The thought turns over, sliding back down, and Lex lets it go. Years. Sometime when they aren't under a death sentence, it can poke itself out again for him to mull, consider, obsess over. There are no other worlds to conquer, Lex thinks with a sudden shock. When this is over--and it will be, there's no other option--he doesn't have an enemy left powerful enough to defy him in anything he wants to do. This world, this place, and no Clark ever again, to harass him and hurt him in only those ways Clark knows how to do, to challenge him and fight him and look at him with those clear green eyes and ask, again, what the *fuck*, Lex, this isn't who you are. This isn't who you were. This can't be who you wanted to be. 

All those answers Lex could never give, to questions that he'll never hear again.

"He--" Lex stops, throat closing, book sliding back onto the bed. New World Order. And how the hell has it taken this long to sink in? Clark's gone, in this world, and there's no one left. No one who knew Lex before his name became his trademark, knows Lex crashes expensive cars and plays piano and has a terrible weakness for early twenty-first century alt-rock and fences for fun. The one who bought the Talon, who played pool and ate fast food and really, really hated golf, no matter how much he had to play. The one locked up in Belle Reve to hide a truth and lied to save a friend.

Those parts of him are gone forever, with Clark. There's no one who remembers.

"Lex?"

And this, he can't push aside. "I need some rest."

Clark had asked, is this who you want to be? Is this all you ever wanted? Is this everything? Long ago, before the only questions Clark ever asked him were with his eyes. You gave up on me, Lex wants to tell him, but that's a lie. Clark gave up on the man who learned to love power more than he could ever care for any person. He never stopped caring for the man who stopped growing up by the time he left Smallville. Lex gave up on the kid he left there. He never tried to know the man who patrolled Metropolis' skies.

"You should rest," the AI murmurs, and Lex nods slowly, feeling the wash of tiredness, not quite suspicious that the AI is drugging him into sleep, mostly because it's welcome. Another world to go, another universe to sort through, and maybe this time, this time, somehow, he'll find the way. Or maybe he'll understand--

"You understand," Lex thinks he hears, but he's too far down to be sure. "You just don't accept. Everything changes."


	10. Rebirth

Everything changes.

Lex closes his eyes, opening them again on the walls of his office.

It looks like his office--like he left it only a few weeks ago, like it had been only seconds since he'd last seen it, from the polished wood of the desk to the wide, blinded windows that when open, would look out at the Metropolis skyline. The chair was his, too, soft leather almost melting under him, custom designed to him alone, and even the pen in his fingers is the one he bought only a few weeks ago.

It's his, all of it, and he straightens from the semi-slump, trying to find the dissonance. Every time, there's been something that felt off, but--no. It's his, like the way he knows the back of his own hand. A brief, internal glance shows only the faintest traces of that other Lex--echoes of familiar rage and even more familiar hate, so close to his own that he withdraws quickly, finding the world again with hands on the fine grain of his desk. Reality, solid and strong and perfect and *his*.

"Wow," he hears himself whisper. It could be his office in Metropolis, though cleaned from that temper tantrum he threw before taking off for parts arctic with a modified death wish. Running his hand over the smooth surface of his desk, Lex turns to look at the wide double doors that lead to his secretary. 

His home. His *world*. Or so close as to not know the difference. Taking a deep breath, Lex relaxes in his chair, glancing at the open laptop. He doesn't quite recognize the charts, but he recognizes his own code. Kryptonite tolerances on living subjects; he knows the equations, though these are more advanced than he ever remembers achieving. Frowning, he watches the curve on the subject, not sure what the coding seems to be implying.

The low buzz of the intercom snaps his attention away. Lex pushes down the button. "Yes?"

"You said to tell you when it was time, sir." His secretary's voice is the same, sharp consonants, the Tennessee drawl of her childhood replaced from too many years on the east coast and midwest. "Do you want to be present when they finish, sir?"

Glancing at the laptop, Lex nods, then realizes she can't see it. He has to start somewhere, he supposes, wondering what kind of project this is. "Yes."

"I'll tell them to wait for you." She clicks off, the soul of efficiency, and Lex leans back, stroking lightly over the keys. Human subjects? Perhaps. Lex frowns. It's been years since he--since he closed those labs. Something just below ethics, some twitch of himself when he watched what he did. He'd never used any but volunteers or those already affected, dangerous to themselves and others, but--

But, but, but. Locking the laptop, that unbalance comes back when his password is the same. There's no way in hell that so much could mirror so perfectly--but it did, and closing the top, he stands up, straightening his coat from habit, before going to the door.

This should, at least, be interesting.

*****

Lex loves the labs.

Underground, mostly because it amuses him during the periodic Federal raids, the agents get jumpy just going down the elevator, and doubly amused when they come out on the other side. A lifetime of horror movies seem to have been their major source of inspiration for what he keeps down here, imagining body parts hanging in specimen jars, mutated creatures crawling the walls, and mad scientists cackling over living vivisections while the patients screamed.

That's just not Lex's style. Illegal he may be--and really, the line is so blurred--but stupid he is not, and so, their first reaction to the clean, crisp lines of lab tables, neat rows of beakers, and exclusively animal subjects, is always, always worth the hassle of getting his lawyers out again. It's just funny, on so many levels.

The door opens on a perfectly normal room, where a receptionist in a neat suit glances up from behind horn-rimmed glasses with a short, glacial smile. "Sir. Dr. Thompson told me to tell you they're ready when you are."

Lex nods, letting her code open the door, Sylvia on his heels like an extension of his body. Down this hall, another one, passing familiar experiments, familiar rooms, familiar faces he recognizes. They're even doing things he recognizes. 

The startling glow of kryptonite green, however, makes him flinch, and he turns his head before Sylvia can see it, moving past the door as quickly as expensively comfortable shoes can go. Sylvia lengthens her stride to keep up. "I think that covers it," she says, and the pad vanishes again. Lex has taken inventory at considerable length of her body, but where she stores her office supplies is still a mystery. "As usual, your schedule has been cleared through tomorrow afternoon." 

Cleared? Lex almost asks, but she makes a sharp right, and Lex blinks a little at the new addition. The door is new, too, and the feel of it is all wrong for titanium backed stele. The slow itch beneath his skin only confirms it. That particular mix isn't one he's ever achieved, though he'd burned out more metallurgists than he can count trying. The faint, greasy green sheen reflects his face like a funhouse mirror, distorting his smile into something more appropriate to the Joker.

"Sylvia--"

Standing in front of the door, she keys in something, and Lex watches the retinal scan glaze across her right eye. He follows her for the same, remembering how much he hates these, no matter their use in security, almost feeling the thin trace of red before it's gone, the door clicking open. He follows her in the door, too, fingers fisted to avoid rubbing at his skin. The sensitivity to kryptonite hasn't diminished over the years, and all the recent exposure seems to make it worse. Or maybe it's his memories that are doing that.

"It's been two weeks," Sylvia says, apropos of nothing, consulting a Palm Pilot with a faint trace of a frown marring her otherwise expressionless face. "Tests show there's been significant degradation, but nothing permanent."

"Degradation." The beginnings of a headache settles just behind his eyes, just what he needs.

"No permanent damage," she says, almost too quickly, and he can feel her move a little away. "Dr. Jorgenson assures me that they wouldn't take that kind of risk with it, sir."

Lex nods, reaching up to rub at his temple, wishing desperately that whatever this is, it could wait. "Of course." And maybe he should have been briefed first. "Is this going to take long?"

"No, sir, of course not." The baffled voice cuts off as she opens up another door. "Right in here. Everything should be ready."

The faces he knows, and in this case, he's not comforted. His head helpfully tries to offer up names and places, but everything in him is frozen by the familiar wall of glass, with the same faint distortion of green running through it. How the hell had he done *that*? The dark within reflects the room at them, solid white and steel, usefully insane scientists, and Sylvia, almost bouncing beside him.

"Sir." A faint nod from someone to his left, and Lex watches as the room illuminates, green through the glass, revealing a painfully bare white room, an emaciated body in filthy hospital pajamas curled in the middle of the floor. And like that, Lex is standing, watching himself at Belle Reve, except the man behind the glass isn't him.

It could be a lot of people, Lex tells himself, nausea rising, tamped down almost reflexively, and Lex takes a slow step toward the glass, the rising light outlining painfully thin flesh over sharp-edged bones, something out of a horror movie set in Auschwitz. The people around him are fixed on the scene like it's the latest blockbuster, which makes it that much more unreal. 

Lex doesn't realize how far he's come until his finger touch the glass, feeling *current* in it, radioactive, something he can sense with every altered cell in his body. If he can feel it, then the man on the floor--the man curled pitifully on that greasy, glazed green floor--

"Superman." It's barely breathed, Clark's name catching at the back of his throat. Deep inside, something flares in rich satisfaction, arousal so sudden that Lex catches his breath. This--to this Lex, to this man--

"He's been unconscious since the procedure ended," a voice says helpfully to Lex's left. Eager. Excited. "Thank you for the opportunity, sir."

Thank you?

"Is he conscious?" Lex's lips feel numb, and he can see his hand shaking. Different world, he tells himself sharply. Different Lex. Different place. Very different man.

"No, sir." Sylvia, now, tugging at his arm. "Usual procedure, sir?"

Lex licks his lips. The light's so bright it's almost blinding, reflecting off green-tinged skin and green-tinged hair and green eyes that open slowly, as if even that hurts too much to bear. Blackish fluid drips slowly from the corner of his mouth to pool beneath his head. There are--bruises. Bone deep, skin deep. Unhealed--places. 

It's someone else entirely who says the word, short and sharp, *eager*, so much his own voice, his own tone, that he barely realizes it's not him. "Yes."

From some half-seen door, two orderlies in pale purple come in, gloved and masked, leaning over to pick up the barely twitching body, pulling him up between them like a drunken frat boy. As they move to the door, Lex's eyes fix on the red-black puddle left behind on the floor.

"Sir?" Sylvia pauses at a door that he hadn't seen when he came in, the same general direction as Clark had been taken in that room. Was he expected to--no. Whatever he does here after--this--won't happen today. 

"Have him--brought to the penthouse when he's--awake." Sylvia gives him her closest approximation of confusion, then slowly nods, stepping away from the door. "I'll be--waiting."

Sylvia nods, and Lex turns blindly toward the door, barely seeing the gathered scientists, barely feeling the doorknob beneath his fingers--all thought on *moving*, getting *away*--

"Sir?"

Lex freezes at the door, hands clenching. If he'd been armed, she would be dead. And everyone else here as well. "Yes?"

He can almost hear her thinking. "It should be in the hour, sir."

Lex nods. "Good." Pushing the door open, Lex escapes into the hall. Thousands of feet between him and the nearest bathroom, thousands of feet before--no. He won't think. Not about this. Not now.

From somewhere comes a startled, pained shriek, hoarse babbling that makes every nerve want to crawl out his skin. 

Lex doesn't run for the elevator, but it's a very close thing.

*****

There are pieces of kryptonite imbedded beneath his skin.

That's the first thing, with the biopic and the x-rays, MRIs, CAT scans, other tests he's never heard of. Color pictures of vivisections and internal organs, green-metal retractors holding back living grey-green skin. Words like ants feet trailing over page after page, documenting the details of an alien life like a Discovery Channel documentary. Kryptonite worked into living muscle, killing by slow degrees, living wounds. They change the location to avoid permanent damage. Sometimes.

LexCorp's computers are marvels of fascinating information for the strong of stomach and lax of ethics, and the notes are perfectly organized and dazzlingly informative. It's everything he ever wanted to know about Superman, from the inside out.

Two weeks isn't the longest, Lex reads, finishing off the first bottle and opening the second without looking up from the laptop screen. Two months isn't the longest. 

They've learned so much, he thinks numbly, ignoring the glass that broke on the floor halfway through the first bottle. 

"Sir?"

Lex knocks the intercom off the desk, stepping on it as he scrolls down chart after chart after chart, technicolor marvels of blue-green-red and flowing lines, graphs and lines and bars. Somewhere outside his office, Sylvia is doubtless still pushing her little button with frantic dignity, but Lex is content to let her do just that for a while. His staff has always known better than to interrupt him when he's working.

Clark's files are the unfortunate tip of the iceburg, though--Lex scrolls through terabytes of data, skimming more information than he would have believed possible. Vague echoes of the Kryptonian equations he'd seen in that first universe of that other Lex. These, too, are his hand, footnotes in a hasty typed scrawl at the bottom of raw reports. Like him, this Lex does a lot of his own dirty work for the sake of science. Page after page after page. Database after database, experiment after experiment, inexhaustibly documented. He changed the face of human genetics. Makes everything he's done in his life--in any of those other lives--look like a kindergarten health class.

That Lex, so far beneath his skin that he can barely feel him--except he does, with every word. He knows the mind that created this, his own amused asides, the way he *thinks*. And this, Lex thinks numbly, line by line blurring by, is what he does. 

He does. You do.

Jerking away, Lex slams the cover down, hands shaking. Belatedly, he's aware of the broken bottle at his feet, surrounding his shoes in a puddle of rusty brown. Two stumbling steps backward leave footprints the color of dried blood.

"Sir?" From the other side of the door, her voice is barely audible, but the doors are thick, so she must be on the verge of screaming. Lex blinks at the puddle, then slowly sits back down, pressing the button that allows admittance to the room. After a few long seconds, one door swings open warily, and Sylvia's pretty, expressionless face looks at him from beneath perfectly bobbed hair, eyes scanning the room before resting on him. "He's conscious, sir. Do you want--"

Want *what*? Lex tries to think of something to say to that. For what? Another round underground, where the sun can't touch him? They know so *much*, even more than he did before, the other Lex making every word, every syllable as familiar as his own name. A few days out of sunlight make the kryptonite superfluous. It's just fun to use. It's *useful*. Licking his lips, Lex wonders belatedly what shows on his face. "Where is he?"

She looks confused. "The penthouse, sir."

*****

There are a lot of ways to handle this. 

In a different time, a different Lex had dreamed of something like this, and the reality is even sharper, even *better*. The penthouse is just as he left it only weeks ago, and it's not, in this one space, this one room. Occupation by two, not one. Neat rows of suits and casual attire in Clark's size on one side of the closet. Neat rows of shoes on the floor. Neatly welded manacles on the green-tinged bed by the window, bolted onto solid metal posts. Imagination isn't even *necessary*--Lex has had this dream more times than he can count, waking up in cold sweat and so hard his body aches. Jerking off to images of bringing Superman to this place, in this place, serving his every whim, chained to that bed, at Lex's mercy in every sense of the word.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lex stares at the familiar bathroom door, all senses trained on the man inside. Clark's too-thin, too-tall body, leaning into the tile while he washed off weeks of sweat and blood and whatever else was on him. Clark--the Clark who couldn't even walk out of that room. Clark--

He's at the door before he knows he's moving, turning the knob and entering thick steam and an outline of a near-skeletal body leaning against the back of the shower through frosted glass, shoulders round, head bowed. 

"Clark?"

The silhouette straightens instantly, head turning toward the door. The hearing should have told him Lex was there. The--the rocks might be dulling that. Taking a deep breath, Lex shuts the door behind him, waiting for Clark to speak.

"I'm--almost done." The thin thread of his voice makes Lex think of damaged lungs. Like the last Clark on his deathbed, voice barely a whisper.

"Do you need help?" He's not sure what's in his voice now.

"No. I can--" Clark pushes off the wall and almost holds his balance. A second upright, then he's stumbling, groping for purchase on smooth tile, and Lex is across the room, jerking the door open and catching Clark before he falls into the wall. Bones he can feel moving beneath his hands, black circled, bloodshot eyes, yellow skin as fragile as parchment, and that feeling again--that other Lex, who wants to tell him how this is done. We do *this*. We touch him and stroke him and comfort him. We bathe him and dress him and tell him how proud we are of him and then we fuck him. We tell him we love him and he believes it as much as we do.

Jesus Christ. Clark weighs almost nothing, a fragile bag of sharp bones and too-tight skin. Clark's stiff but makes no effort to pull away, like this is nothing new and even if it was, he wouldn't fight it anyway. The shower pounds water hot enough to injure through two layers of clothes into his back. Lex doesn't care.

Slowly, he kneels, bringing Clark with him. "You can't manage this in the--shape you're in."

Clark's head bows slowly. "I--no."

Lex licks his lips, the quick burst of arousal tamped down as quickly as it starts, forcing this foreign body into obedience as he reaches behind him to turn off the shower, an arm around Clark's waist to keep him upright. Slowly, he stands back up, balancing Clark's dead weight against him. "Bath?"

Clark doesn't look up. "Okay."

It's not easy to maneuver six plus feet of alien across the room to the tub, and that's fantastic, because all Lex's concentration is on remaining upright, holding Clark steady, lowering him carefully into the huge, luxurious tub, settling him so he doesn't go under instantly. The big hands lay uselessly on the bottom of the tub as Lex turns on the water, as hot as he can get it, watching the tub slowly fill. 

Clark never opens his eyes. Steaming water covers him to the shoulders, and Lex watches him slowly slump down more. It doesn't hide anything--not the marks on his chest like burns, the fading red-blue bracelets on his wrists, the march of visible ribs to the plainly outlined breastbone. The full lips are marked with the imprint of his own teeth, sharp and jagged, barely healing. A fine vivisection line cutting up his chest, other--lines--that Lex recognizes from autopsies he's seen, lines that should never appear on Clark's body. On any body that still lived.

"Do you need anything?" It's a fairly stupid question, but Lex can't help voicing it. Clark's mouth trembles. 

"Just, just rest. I'll be okay." Like he has to prove it, Clark brings up one limp hand, reaching for the bottle of shower gel near the lip of the tub. The big hand shakes at the touch, motor control shot to hell as he knocks it off, watching in dull disinterest as it clatters to the floor. "Sorry."

Lex picks it up with hands that don't quite shake. "It's okay. I can do it."

Clark's eyes close again, head turning a little away toward the wall. Slowly, Lex pours out the soap into one hand.

"I--did okay?" Clark's voice is so low Lex can barely hear it. Or he doesn't *want* to, soapy hand pausing a breath from the smooth skin of Clark's shoulder, eyes closing at the rush again--too fast, too hot, too *something*, and God, this makes him *hot*, makes him want to unbutton his pants and jerk them down, wrap his cock in those pretty red lips and rut like an animal. His body knows--it twists, trying to pull him to his feet, hand bypassing shoulder to rest on the back of Clark's neck.

He could do that, can do that, right here, and Clark would let him. Clark would do it. Clark would--Clark can--

His fingers clench on smooth skin, tight over bone and muscle, and Clark turns his head, all slow-motion, plenty of time to know exactly how this goes. Exactly what he does. Exactly what they are.

"Clark."

"I did okay?" Blank face, but heartbreakingly frightened voice. A kid staring at him from Clark's eyes, someone Lex has never met and met a lifetime ago, the boy at fifteen he never, never would have touched, never, never would have broken the fragile trust between them. Never would have, couldn't have, should never, should never, *should never*--

And his other hand is pressed to the front of his pants, fingers working open the button. He can still smell Clark's blood and sweat, beneath the scent of clean water and his soap. He's never been this hard in his life.

Lex jerks away, ass hitting the floor so hard he bites down on his tongue and tastes blood.

"Lex?" With a tremendous effort, Clark tries to lever himself up, eyes huge. His hand slips on the side of the tub, cracking his chin on the edge. "Lex--"

Lex pushes himself backward across the floor, back hitting the shower door with a jolt, putting feet between them he wishes could be miles. Hands pressed to the cold tile floor, Lex closes his eyes. 

It's the mind, yes, brushing his, but the body, too, hardwired to this, for this, used to this, wanting this. And it's himself, in every filthy fantasy of half a lifetime's creation. Dreams made flesh stare at him with wide, confused eyes from the side of the tub.

Licking his lips, Lex forces it back--that other, himself, the pleasure in seeing this, feeling this, the reflexive need to take what's already his.

"Are you okay?" 

Never again. He'll never not feel this moment, this second. He'll never close his eyes and not see himself, standing over a broken man and wanting only to break him more. He'll never-- "Why?"

Clark stares at him with blank confusion. "I--"

He can't sit in here and look at Clark--wet, small, broken Clark. He can't stay in here and see this and not want. Not touch. Not take. "Stay. There."

Clark subsides into the water instantly, but the eyes never leave Lex as he forces himself to stand up, walk by Clark to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he turns, fixing his eyes on a spot above Clark's head. "Take as long as you need."

Lex goes out, closing the bathroom door behind him, knees giving out as his mind offers up dizzying memories of fantasies and dreams and the most degrading, debased promises he's ever made. 

He doesn't even realize he's shaking until he sees his hands, trembling fists pushing into the floor like he's trying to burrow through. Shakily, he stands up, knees water, getting to the bed by will alone. A slow collapse on the smooth surface of the comforter, this urge to wrap himself in it and go to sleep, never have to wake up and look at this. He doesn't, can't. There are a thousand things to hide from, but he'll never do it from himself again. 

An eternity later, Lex hears the bathroom door open and close, the uneven steps toward the bed, stopping short just a few feet away. "Lex?" Lex keeps his eyes closed, wondering what Clark is thinking. If he even bothers. If Lex burned that out of him, too.

"There was--" His voice is hoarse, like he's been drinking for days. Weeks. He only wishes he had been. More than earlier. A universe of alcohol might not be enough. "People used to think mirrors would capture your soul. They covered mirrors in a house where someone died. So the soul couldn't get lost before the hereafter, whatever or wherever it might be." 

Clark's silent. Lex imagines them in the castle for a second, telling Clark a story, the way that Lex never learned how to just say something. Couch it in metaphor or imagery, clothe it in the words of other people. He doesn't know how to be that direct. He's not sure at this late date he even can. "Where's the AI?"

Clark takes another slow step forward. "The AI?"

"Yours. The Fortress. What happened to it?"

"The remains make up the LexCorp computer core," Clark says slowly, and maybe he thinks Lex is crazy. Maybe he knows he is. Strange, inane conversation could be par for the course. It should be. No man should be like this and still be sane, be human. This--thing. He doesn't dare look at Clark. He doesn't want to know what else this body does, what it wants, what it knows. "Were you--injured when I was gone?"

Is that what he called it? What Lex called it? "Gone." You create your euphemisms to suit your aesthetics. Dirty words--sex and passion; death and dying; excruciating, *fascinating* experiments. It's a language all its own. Words that strip the power from the act, make it easier to swallow, make it simpler to accept. "Yes, gone. No." Lex stops, feeling Clark come closer. That higher metabolism, the sick twist of kryptonite imbedded in living flesh, just barely in the reach of his senses. A shift of the bed as Clark sits down, pulling Lex toward him by sheer inertia. "Remains?"

A tentative hand touches his ankle. Lex forces himself not to pull away, shift closer. He's not sure which response is the right one. "It was a danger to you--to us," Clark recites flatly. "It could have destroyed us if it wasn't contained. It was dangerous. It wasn't human. It wasn't th--"

"Stop." 

Clark breaks off mid word, hand still and warm on his ankle. For a long time, there's nothing but the sound of their breathing, the hum of the ventilators, the shift of the bed beneath them. Lex opens his eyes on the ceiling. There isn't anything he can think to say. "Why?"

He feels Clark shift. "Why what?"

"Why this time?"

Clark shifts again, and the hand on his ankle starts to press, flattening on a slow slide up his calf. Lex wonders where this is going--it can't go where it seems to want to. No one--no one sane "Clark." A slow, mechanical slide over his hip, and Lex feels Clark's bare knee press into his calf. It's like this.

It's like *this*.

Sitting up, Lex grabs the big hand by the wrist. Clark could shake him off like tissue if he wanted. He doesn't. The green eyes stare at him from a ashen face, exhaustion written into every line. "Why do I do this?"

Clark blinks, thick lashes shadowing his eyes. "I don't--what?" 

It's not fair. Clark's hand is warm, limp meat, and nothing looks back at him but confusion. It pisses him off, irrational or not. "You're stronger than I am. Faster. You could *kill* me right now, even with that rock in your back. What the fuck are you doing here?"

The look doesn't change. "I can't go outside."

What the fuck-- "What the hell is he?" He wants to *hurt* Clark--that's got to be the other Lex, who can look at this and enjoy it so much. Want it so much. "You're the strongest man I know. Why are you here?"

Clark's eyebrows dart together--the big hand pulls away, so suddenly Lex almost forgets to let go. "I'm not a man, Lex."

No.

"And I'm not Lex."

For a second, Clark doesn't move, even breathe. "What?"

"What else do I do?" He can't sit still. Movement's more necessary than breathing. Sliding off the bed, Lex puts feet of space and furniture between them. "Run over puppies? Shoot fucking orphans during drive-bys of the local park? Tear the space-time continuum for *fun*?" Did he, would he, could he, is he? "Jesus, Clark, just tell me who the fuck I am!"

Clark shifts onto his knees, wincing at the pull on bony shoulders. He's so thin, it hurts to look at him, fragile the way that Superman could never, never have been. Like Clark never was. There's only resignation left. "I don't--I don't know what answer you want. You're--you're Lex Luthor. You're everything you ever wanted to be."

Two more steps, and Lex stands at the wide windows, blinded against the late afternoon sun. Jerking the cord, they slide open, but the expected golden glow doesn't reach his skin. It takes seconds, minutes, hours to comprehend what he's seeing--longer to accept it. It's Metropolis as it was before Xerxes, and it's nothing like it, bathed in watery green, shimmering in the distance. Looking up, Lex stares at the solid green where there'd once been nothing but blue, uncomprehending.

"Lex?" He can feel Clark's wary approach, even with silent feet on carpeted floor. Cat-soft and scared to death. "Lex?"

"I didn't do this."

Clark's only feet away when he stops. "They forced you to it. They wouldn't accept your plan. They--"

Jesus *Christ*. "Do you do anything but parrot back whatever bullshit he tells you?" Lex can't take his eyes off the city. It's the *same*--there's no difference except the sickly green. "How?"

"Kryptonite fallout." Clark's voice sounds thready. Lex wonders if he's coming closer. He can't bother to turn around and see. "Hydrogen--"

"Bomb," Lex whispers. Several, probably. God alone--or Lex's marvelously awake mind, already drawing equations on the blackboard in his head--know what kind of impact splitting the atom with a kryptonite trigger could do.

"The shields keep the cities safe." Lex shivers at Clark's voice, so close to his ear. Warmth just out of reach. "You keep--"

"How much?"

Clark doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "Sixty five percent of all arable land. You--clean it up."

Lex closes his eyes. Of course. "For a price."

"You're the only one--" Clark stops, staring at him, utterly confused. "What happened? You're--" Crazy. Utterly insane. No one sane would do this. No one sane would *think* of this. "Tell me, Lex." Gentle fingers brush his shoulder--Lex flinches, that other Lex murmuring so close to the surface of his mind that it would be too easy to just give up. Let the AI pull out what's left if it can, or leave him to rot here. It doesn't matter. It won't ever matter. "Lex."

In the reflection from the glass, Lex watches Clark's hand hover, uncertain. There's so much here he can never accept. That he has to, and there may be no time for this, but he has to, has to, *has to*-- "I'm not Lex."

Clark's hand drops uncertainly, one foot stepping back. "I don't--"

It's easier than he thought. "There was an organism. Not long ago. It was--something. We don't know why. I don't care why. It destroyed half the country. It killed everyone I--know. It killed Clark. And the AI sent me here to find out how to beat it."

If he didn't know better, Lex might think Clark stops breathing. Clark's eyes catch his in the glass, a perfect reflection of expressionless shock. The big hands clench into fists.

"So I'm not Lex. This Lex, anyway." He waits for Clark to look away, but Clark doesn't, just stands there, like a complete fucking moron, or a man with no idea what the script's supposed to be.

Finally, the big hand falls on his shoulder. Lex can't pull away, can't even *think*, eyes glazed with green skyscrapers and green streets and so he turns when Clark pulls him, feeling smooth palms cup his face, and the kiss is so soft, so slow, that he can't even try to fight it.

He thinks he's going to pull away. He wraps his hands around bony wrists and thinks he's going to pull away, but it never comes. Soft hair brushes his face, the faintest trace of stubble scraping his lips, and Clark makes it all so *effortless*, and somehow, they're on the bed and he's stretching out on impossibly soft sheets and Clark's fingers are fumbling open the buttons on his shirt, pulling it from his pants--faster at his belt, the softest whisper of leather before it hits the floor.

It's almost enough to make him open his eyes, but he never wants to do that again. He opens his mouth--God alone knows what he'll say--but Clark's back, warm tongue exploring his mouth while a big hand closes over his cock--oh God.

"Clark--" The sound buries itself in Clark's throat. He thinks there's something he should be saying--something important, something *necessary*--but it's swallowed up by the first slow stroke of his cock. Clark has amazing hands. And he knows how to use them.

He moans when Clark pulls away--his hands are buried in Clark's hair and he hadn't even known it, twisted between his fingers like he won't ever let go. Clark's warm, wet mouth takes a scenic route, licking slowly down his collarbone, stopping to lap tenderly in the hollow of his throat. Gentle, God, almost sweet, almost better than anything, and Lex bends a knee at Clark's urging, feeling the heavy body settle between his legs. Mouthing his nipples hard and aching for the fingers that follow, licking a slow circle around his navel, and he's arching, pushing his cock into Clark's belly, his chest, his--oh God, his *mouth*, those soft lips wrapped all around him and taking him down so fast he can't breathe, like drowning.

"Clark," he hears himself whisper. This is all wrong, except it's not, and he's not sure why it's supposed to be. Thrusting up with careful strokes, making Clark follow his rhythm, and he just *does*, like he knows it, one hand carefully stroking his balls, the other braced on the bed to ride every roll of Lex's hips. It's never been like this. It can't possibly ever have been this good. All that focus, a need to please that makes Lex tighten his fingers, push it harder, fuck that pretty soft mouth, he could--he would--he can--he *is*--

"Clark," he says, and when he opens his eyes, the naked, helpless *fear-hope-need to please-have to please*--just makes it so much better. Press his foot into Clark's back and hold him there, *take*, coming so hard that the entire fucking *world* is an explosion of light so bright he could go blind and not even care. 

Clark mouths him down, slow and easy, and Lex, boneless, feels him move, sliding back up to ease down beside him. When he opens his eyes, Clark's looking down at him, lips swollen and red, and it's sexy, it's the *definition* of sex, but the look in his eyes shouldn't be and is, making him hard again, too soon. Lex untangles his fingers slowly, hands spasming from the grip. Clark turns his head to brush a kiss against his palm on the way down, and Lex's hand freezes on one cheek, cheekbone jutting against his fingers. 

Have this.

"Jesus." He's got to*stop*. Stop reacting, start thinking, start putting this together. He's here--he's here for-- "I did it, didn't I?"

Carry doesn't lean into the touch so much as accept it as necessary, a pale tongue darting out to lick, and Lex jerks his hand away before he does something else. Something even less a good idea, even less-- "Stop that."

Clark jerks away like he burns, and Lex pushes himself up, tucking himself back in his pants, feeling like he just might be sick. "I'm not your Lex."

Clark doesn't so much as *twitch*.

"You don't believe me."

There can't be a safe answer to that, Lex realizes as Clark's lashes fan down. Maybe there are no safe answers with this Lex. Maybe every answer is the wrong one. You choose your euphemisms to suit your aesthetics. You choose your conversation to suit the madman who locks you up with his scientists when he gets angry. Or bored. Lex scoots farther away, trying to give himself space to think. Stop reacting. Think. Think. Think.

"Interdimensional portal. The body's his, the mind's mine." Clark's eyes flare for a just a second. "You know what I'm talking about."

Clark licks his lips. "You--were on the edge of a breakthrough. On the multiverse. Using the computer's stored data. You said you--that you wished you hadn't burned out the AI before you discovered how--how-" Clark falters, blinking slowly. It's fascinating--Clark draws himself back onto his knees, staring at Lex like a nightmare. "You. Lex."

"Same name, different man." And so much alike, it bends the mind. But Lex isn't going there again--that way leads surreal landscape and blowjobs and God alone knows what else. Straightening, Lex watches Clark.

"You--in your--world?" Clark measures out the words. "You're--not Lex."

"I'm Lex Luthor, not *this* Lex." This could get tedious very fast. Clark draws back more. Lex tries not to take it personally. Too personally. 

"You want something. From here." 

The calm is too calm. Reminder of the deathly silence before a storm, all still and quiet and then--something. God knows what this Lex has taught Clark. "Yes. An answer."

Clark nods slowly, sitting back on his heels. A long time ago--so long that Lex can't even mark the time and place--Clark would look at him like that, on that edge between necessary doubt and hopeful belief, the way Clark always wanted to believe him and never quite could make that last step. It was, Lex thinks in retrospect, a look he should have known how to interpret a long time ago. "What happened to L--to this Lex?"

"He's here."

"And--and after?"

There's a lot to be said for settling into informative conversation, fast and sharp and completely able to block out everything. "He'll be back. No worse for wear." It would make him wince, but he's beyond the indulgence. "I need help."

Clark stares down at his hands for a few seconds, and Lex can almost see that mind pulling things together. Everyone who thought Clark Kent was a little slow had been fooling themselves, and Lex is included in that group, unfortunately. It'd been years before he could acknowledge, even to just himself, that even beyond the powers, Clark could still have given him a serious run for his money. He thinks fast. And he thinks completely different from anyone else. That's not the alien, either, because Clark isn't an alien in any way that counts. It's just--him.

"How?"

So far, so good. "Let's say where I come from, I didn't--get this far." Ever wanted to. Maybe? No, don't go there, don't think that, don't--do that. It's not *him*, it's someone else. "I don't have a lot of time."

"An organism in your world. What kind?"

So Clark *had* been listening. "Mechanical and organic. Two worlds back, dad called it Xerxes. Seemed appropriate." In so many ways. "Kryptonite power source."

It's like he's seeing a different person entirely from the one who just blew him into a guilt-thickening orgasm. Interesting. "Yes."

Clark nods, sliding off the bed, completely ignoring nudity and still-weak limbs, looking off into the distance. "We had one of those."

Lex breathes out. "Yeah. The AI thought so."

Clark's head whips around at close the speed of light. "The AI--"

"You--kept it. You called it the Fortress--"

"Of Solitude." Almost involuntarily, a corner of his mouth twitches up. "Yeah. I remember."

There are so many questions to ask that Lex is stumped on which one to pick. And none are necessary for his mission. Plan. Thing. It doesn't make it easier not to ask them.

"I need the data."

Clark's head tilts. "You need to know how to defeat it."

It would almost be spooky--it's like a completely different man is here now, and no one changes personalities that fast without a serious psychological condition making the transition easier. "To destroy it."

"You--was I--" And like that, just to fuck with him, that other person slides out, nowhere except behind the green eyes, watching him warily. 

"You tried." Lex wonders what's showing on his face. "You--succeeded in stopping it. For a little while."

Clark nods slowly. "I--it wasn't easy." Completely naked, completely at ease--it's almost unreal. Lex watches, trying not to be fascinated. "It was--a long time ago." The dark brows draw together sharply. "I don't remember much about it."

Lex pushes that aside. "Clark--my--the Clark from my world--he couldn't kill it. He was--" Exhausted. Angry. Grieving. Now, he can think it, say it, even mean it. "Everyone we--he knew, died. There wasn't anyone left." And Clark needed that connection, needed it like people needed air. The part of Clark that was always vulnerable and could never stop.

They stare at each other, all full of questions.

"Why are you telling me?"

I think that performance in the bathroom explains *that*. "Because it seemed like a bad idea to try to be--whoever he is." And there's no way Lex can do it and not enjoy it. It's not quite bleedover--he's not sure what it is, but it's there, like this Lex has an access that feels natural. A direct hardwire to his thoughts. Separate, but not quite. Almost--almost-- "And I need help. I've done this four times. And nothing. I need to get it right this time."

Clark's at his unreadable best, like Superman when he was feeling particularly non-judgmental and ready to knock you on your ass when you fucked up. The nostalgia's curdled with the touches of that other--old rage, unhealed and frighteningly close. Like right now, seeing this part of Clark, pisses him off beyond belief, and Lex feels the rise of sharp, deadly words, just to bring back that one that obeyed without question. Lex clenches one hand, nails cutting brutally into his skin. The wave of pain helps. A lot. "I need your help."

"I--don't remember a lot of it. But Lex kept recordings, somewhere." Clark frowns, blinking a little. "He's going to be so pissed when he--when you leave."

Oh yeah. The others will pale in comparison to this one. Power and the will to use it, backed with the kind of blind rage that Lex himself had learned to temper. Maybe getting the world at your feet does corrupt, but in the most simple ways. It makes life a series of no-consequences. Jesus. Would he have been like this, able to strike out just because he could?

You did, you do, and you are. Very simple. "Can you handle that?"

The blank looks is back. "I have, for years. There's nothing he can do to me that can--surprise me. And nothing I can't imagine. I'm--valuable." The slight quirk of one corner of Clark's mouth tells novels. He's right, and right in ways that make Lex twitch in odd places. Lex won't kill him. That would be easy. It would have been easy. Is easy. No Lex in the universe, in all its infinite diversity, would choose a dead Clark over a living one. Or take it easy when it can be hard, and interesting, and useful. Valuable.

"I don't--" Want to do that to you, what the hell? He already had this Clark, and he knows himself. That alone--that *alone* would be enough. "You don't have to--" Lex stops himself. He's turning down help? Is he *crazy*?

Clark shrugs, then seems to realize he's naked, a fact that Lex hasn't stopped being aware of for a single second. "I should--" The flush isn't unexpected, but it should be. This Clark probably doesn't do that much. "Just a second, and I'll show you how to access the mainframe. Lex--built a lot of safeties in." Clark turns away. "For the protection of LexCorp projects."

"How to clean kryptonite poisoning." No use in poisoning the land if you can't clean it up afterward. That's suicide, and for Lex, for any Lex, suicide isn't an option.

Clark tosses a glance over his shoulder. "You'd be surprised what you can learn with a captive Kryptonian and a lot of really smart scientists."

Lex nods. There aren't words, and he wouldn't say them if there were. Clark vanishes into the closet, and Lex considers the slant of green on the floor that means the sun must be setting.

When Clark comes back in, Lex is still watching. "Kryptonite shield?"

Clark glances out, casually pulling a t-shirt over his head. "Not exactly. That's what's outside the shield."

What's outside-- "That's reflection from outside?"

Clark's head nods through the t-shirt before it pushes through, tousled dark hair and solemn, tight mouth. Habit, Lex thinks. Clark doesn't look like someone who smiles very much anymore. "More or less. You'd have to ask the physicists to get something clearer than that, but--yeah."

Lex stares up into the bright green ball of sunlight. "No one could live out there."

"A lot do. The shield also keeps them out of the city." Clark absently sits down on the edge of the bed, and Lex watches in fascination as he pulls on socks. "More outside than in the protected cities. They tend to be--unstable."

There are so many ways that disturbs Lex. "Mutants."

Clark's head lifts briefly between socks. "They aren't human anymore. Some aren't even sentient."

Lex digests that. "I did that. He did."

Clark pauses, mid-sock. "Not--on purpose. It was a combination. The Justice League--well. The government sort of forgot how to negotiate without them."

Lex blinks. "With me."

"It's complex." Clark pulls down the edge of his jeans, then stands up, glancing out the window expressionlessly. "Everything went wrong. I don't think Lex ever forgave them for pushing him that hard."

"*Pushing* him?" And if Clark would look even a little appalled, it would be easier, except that's a lie. Nothing could make it easier. "Genocide isn't what I call resistance to being manipulated. It's--"

"They wanted your kryptonite research." Clark sits back down, arms braced behind him. "They wanted a lot of things that you couldn't do, even if you wanted to. They would have broken LexCorp--"

"And this was a solution?"

Clark shrugs. "It wasn't supposed to be this--powerful. Smaller area, more contained, just a threat, an experiment. But Kryptonite--reacts weird. There was this storm or--I don't know how to describe it. And it was a big chain reaction. The prototypes for the shields went up almost immediately, but--" Clark shrugs. "I wasn't--around for a lot of it. Lex explained when I got out."

Got out, from an experiment, from containment, from whatever Lex did to Clark when he was unhappy and needed a target that could always come back for more. "And you believed him?"

Clark stares straight back. "No. But I believe the computers. He kept me under until it was over. He didn't want me killed by the storms."

Lex closes his eyes. "Because you would have tried to help."

"That's what he said, too."

That wasn't reassuring. "I--" Understand.

Clark nods back, like he hears the unspoken, and Lex thinks of the Clark he remembers. He was Superman and Clark, he practically *invented* the multiple personality concept and did it better than Sibyl and a few hundred horror movies combined. But this. He can't quite wrap his mind around it. Staring out the window is more comprehensible, and that's saying something.

"It was--an accident. He was forced to it."

Every muscle clenches when he turns around. "It's a choice."

It's a choice. You get up in the morning, you have breakfast, you pick your clothes, you pick your life. You choose. 

"It's not--that simple."

Strangely, it was. "It's always simple. Everything that creates the it is complex, but in the end, it's simple." You do, or you don't. Jesus, he can almost *see* Clark, see Superman, saying just that. Pompous son of a bitch. And he'd said it, and then he'd thought it, loudly, in Lex's general direction every time they met. The helpless resentment that Clark always tried to hide, the disgust he never bothered to. Your choice, he said, and he might as well have said, and look what a fascinating mess you've made of it.

What a truly *spectacular* mess.

"You should have killed me." Lex hears the words, and it may be his voice, but he's not sure he recognizes it. "Him. Me. Whatever pronoun works."

Clark's head tilts, confused. "Why?"

That he can say that-- "You can't see out the fucking *window*?"

Clark's blank face could be an answer in itself. "Then there'll be no one. No one who knows how it started, how to fix it. No one who--" Clark stops again. "You don't understand."

"I have an extremely well-developed sense of self-preservation." And Clark never managed to develop much of that, by the way. This one-- "He's going to kill you. Jesus, he'll kill the whole world if he feels like it." Because you don't go this far without being willing to go all the way.

Clark shakes his head, almost too quickly. "He would never--"

"He would. He did. He will again, next time he gets bored and Jesus, you know this. You have to." No Clark in the universe was that stupid or that optimistic. "You *know*."

Clark's head tilts again. "He has the world to jump when he says to and a living, breathing science experiment. Trust me, he's entertained enough."

"And you're willing to be that?"

The green eyes fix on him with a level gaze. "Yes."

*****

Clark logs him into the mainframe, then leaves the room. 

It's--weird.

It's more than weird. All the Clarks are recognizable, but in an infinite universe of infinite variation, there's this one, too, just recognizable enough to hurt, just unfamiliar enough to feel like someone ripping off a scab every time he opens his mouth. It's like chewing on glass, cuts everywhere and bleeding out, but no way to make him stop. 

There's an almost uncontrollable urge to follow, and God, it's fucking Smallville all over again, with Lex chasing Clark who chases God knows what. A Clark who doesn't bother pretending and never bothers hiding anything, not even the glimpse of his scarred back, where a Lex implanted kryptonite chips to keep him safely earthbound and an endless source of entertainment. 

It's just the right combination of sadistic and practical to be right up Lex's alley. Constant manacles cut down on maneuverability. And there's nothing like using someone's own body to betray them, to give it that special, dehumanizing touch. Psychological warfare never gets boring.

It's just simpler to focus on the information, scrolling by as quickly as Lex can read it.

"You know, it's easier that way."

Lex jerks his head up. The room's still empty, and his cellphone's in the other room.

"Oh please. You've done this for five different worlds now." The amusement's cut with bitter rage, the kind Lex curbed before he finished his twenties. It got him nowhere except the emergency room with broken bones and a truly spectacular series of front page Inquisitor issues. "You know who I am."

"They never manifested vocally, either." Is he talking to himself? He's not sure he wants to know.

"There is that. Auditory hallucinations. Interesting pattern of brain damage. I miss the AI sometimes. It was an interesting experience."

"Destroying it?"

He can feel the smile like he's wearing it himself. "Listening to it beg for Clark's life. I was cutting it to pieces, fragmenting its consciousness, and all it could think to ask for was poor, mistreated Kal." The voice stops, curious. "You want visuals?"

No. "You can't."

"Those are words I don't believe anymore." Another pause. "How are you keeping me--inactive, anyway?"

Lex would like to know how he got this active, but a slide inside to check out the state of his mind seems like a bad idea, all things considered. Last time he'd tried that, he'd ended up shooting his way through LuthorCorp, which, while cathartic, hadn't been on his list of top ten plans. "Establishing dominance is the first step toward satisfactory relations. Didn't Dad teach you anything?"

There's a flicker on the edge of his vision. His head aches suddenly, a pounding migraine striping up the center, like a machete carving up the center of his skull. Eyes wide, Lex grabs for the desk, satiny wood sliding beneath suddenly sweaty hands. "Yes. That's--interesting."

Lex forces his teeth together and bites into his tongue, hard enough for the shock of pain to narrow his focus. "Back the. Fuck. Off. Or I'll make sure by the time I leave this body, there won't be much of it left for you to return to."

And he means it. Suicide isn't a Lex thing, but homicide's right up his alley. The anger again, almost blacking out his vision, then slow recession. Spots dance in front of Lex's eyes. "Calm down, Lex. That sort of spike can be bad for your--sadly weak mind. You've done a lot of damage, you know."

A slimy feeling, of cool fingers trailing through his closest memories, pulling some out for a look, passing over others. There's nothing quite like it. "I don't--this is my imagination."

"Kind of. While you were having some kind of crisis of conscience, I thought I'd explore my newly smaller residence. You're--different." Flavored with the curiosity that's as much a part of him as his eyes. "But not so much."

Very much. "My idea of a good weekend isn't genocide."

The snort's like a breath on the back of his neck. "Please. You're just pissed it didn't occur to you first. If it's any consolation, you couldn't do it--I had Clark two years before I figured out to make it all work together."

The images that follow are sharp and slick, like expensive photography, glossy and brilliant. Time is nothing in your own head, so it's an eternity of things he's never seen--Clark in the labs, Clark on long, cold-white tables under brilliant lights, and vivisection was just the warm-up exercise, so much blood that anyone human, even superhuman, should have, could have, must have died. And to look at him--and Lex has, that long, perfect body--the only scars are the new ones. 

Lex's stomach turns over, but it's worse, somehow, when he can't--quite--make himself stop watching. These aren't new, they aren't strange, they're the natural outcome of a thousand threats and promises. They're *real*, and he can fool himself about everything but that. 

"It was fun." And that does it, that feels true, that feels like something he'd think. 

"I watched him die."

"So have I. And I brought him back."

You can't strangle a disembodied voice. He could try, and that would prove once and for all that every thing his father ever said about his mental stability was absolutely true. But then, everything he's said has turned out true. Ruled by his emotions. Unstable. And dangerously short-sighted.

Very dangerously short-sighted.

"You think I couldn't put a knife in your chest?" Lex says, and the other slinks by, smug satisfaction, as bright and cold as starlight, slipping through his thoughts. "Right here and right now."

Hesitation, like a crack in ice. Lex feels the shimmering of doubt. "You wouldn't."

Lex grins, feeling a heady rush of satisfaction, like a car going off a bridge, or threatening a man who has everything to lose. "I'd tear up LexCorp while I did it. I could email some *fascinating* information out too." Lex lets his certainty bleed through his thoughts. "It's not my world, after all. I don't have a damn thing to lose."

For a second, the other Lex pauses--and that's all Lex needs, slamming down against the foreign, chilly thoughts, pushing them under, and he's not even sure *how* he's doing it, but he does. When his eyes open, the room is empty and tinted in dark green from the setting sun, and Clark is standing at the doorway, as blank as a new sheet of paper.

When Lex looks down, he sees a mangled pen in one hand, ink staining three fingers, spreading black across the keyboard of the laptop. He unclenches his hand, stretching his fingers.

Uncertainty. Lex could like this, if it wasn't so very close to absolutely crazy. "Is everything--" Clark stops short, eyebrows drawn sharply together. "You were--talking."

Lex drops back in the chair, eyeing the laptop. "You have all his passwords?"

Clark blinks. "Yes."

"And you never thought to use them?"

That second. Just one. Clark looks back at him and it's obvious, no, he didn't. Not once. Not ever. It's unbelievable. "Why not?" Like a brick wall, or a clean slate. Lex doesn't fuck around when he destroys someone--he does it all the way. And every memory is *there*, everything that Lex had shown him, and seeing the progression doesn't make it any easier, just a fuck of a lot more comprehensible. "I never knew I could."

"Stop." Clark looks just plain tired now, and it could be, oh, the fact he just got out of the last of Lex's little laboratory adventures, which is almost enough to shut Lex down like a closed door. 

"I just--"

"What?" If he can get an honest emotional reaction out of Clark, something involving his windpipe and superstrong fists--he can say he'll be thrilled, and in so many ways is this second the funniest of his life. "Jesus, Clark--"

"You're here for two days, Lex. You can't--can't--you don't understand it." Clark comes in the room, but slowly, and his eyes flick to the blinds left open, pouring progressively darker green onto the floor. Masochism--the new black. "You just--God. Did you do better?"

"Yes." 

Lex stops, breath catching in his throat. It's an amazing concept, unfolding like an origami crane, showing everything, and under Clark's wide eyes, he *knows* it. "Yes, I did do better." 

Clark looks away first.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Lex gives the ink stained laptop a long look. "Yes." And with Lex's memories, it tells him more. "You killed Xerxes."

Clark blinks, frowning a little. "I don't--"

"It took a while." It took a long time, as long as it took Clark to die. But he didn't, because he was stronger, because the JL had still been alive to help with the thousand other crises generated by Xerxes, and because that day, there'd been no one to protect. 

No one for Clark to protect, and no one to protect the JL or Superman, either. Watching Clark's face, he thinks of all the things that have happened, one thing that came out right. It shows all over in the honest confusion in Clark's face. Clark doesn't remember how his friends died.

"You were weakened after Xerxes," Lex says instead. "Kryptonite poisoning."

Clark nods slowly. "I woke up--a long time after. In the lab." Clark pauses. "I never expected to wake up at all."

That's in the memories, too. Lex pushes them away, wondering if it's so wrong to think about giving up.

"Did you find out--" Clark's voice is far away, even though he's closer. Lex reaches for the shutdown, closing the laptop, watching the dark outside that makes Metropolis something he can deal with. For a little while. 

"No." And maybe he never will. All these strange, different lives, these different worlds, and when he goes back, it's back to the medical lab and back to his room and then back to that chair to try again, and again, and *again*, no matter what the AI says, because while this isn't much hope, they don't have anything else. Brain damage, he thinks, looking down at his own hands, still on the edge of the desk. Not coming all the way back. Not coming back at all. "I'll have to do it again." And again. And again, until he doesn't remember who he is, when all the other Lexes in his head overwhelm the native resident, and Christ, that's what the AI was trying to tell him about these worlds, these lives, and he didn't understand, not until now.

Clark's at the edge of the desk. "How many times have you--done this?"

Lex closes his eyes, the lids painted kryptonite green. "This is the fifth." And maybe there's only time for one or two more jumps before Xerxes is awake and Lex is out there, because who else can stop it? Who else can even try? 

"Tell me about it," Clark says, slowly, and Lex looks up. "Xerxes. What happened. I--it's the last time. That I did anything. I--I always wanted--" He stops, mouth compressed to a flat line, and Lex wants to reach for him. The green eyes flare with something incandescent. "The last time I did something right."

It's. Like that. Lex licks his lips. "The JL found it early. They tracked it, kept it distracted. It--gets its power from the sun. Like you do." Lex pulls in the other memories--what difference does it make, really? Even if he went back right now, there might not be enough time. Even if they had a plan. Synching them with his own, Lex pulls it together. "It wasn't--as strong as it could have been. The JL set up a perimeter and you went to fight it. The last resort was transporting it into space. It might not kill it, but it would go dormant." God, how easy that would be, but the power they would need, power they don't have. "You--fought it. Until it burned out all its store of energy." And your own, too. Not counting the cost. "After--after you melted it down into its component parts. The--" Lex stops, mouth going dry. "You were burned out."

From across the desk, Lex can feel Clark's steady gaze.

"And. And after?"

Lex came climbing out of his bunker and made a plan. And the exhausted JL, almost unconscious Superman, they were all the threat of toilet paper. Put them on the run, took them out, did it all the way, because he knew that if he failed, he wouldn't survive, no matter the JL's position on human life. When Clark woke up, his world was circumscribed by a five by five foot white block cell, and in some ways, Lex never let him leave it again. Not completely.

"I don't know." Lex lets his hands slide off the desk. "It's not--easy to access his memories." It wouldn't be, but this Lex is perfectly happy to share, the images flashing by at the speed of light, burned into Lex to keep for good, even after he's gone. The exhibitionist in them both, wanting to show off what they've done, how smart they are, how fucking brilliant. Reaching up, Lex rubs his nose, twitching at a tickle. When he touches, his fingers come away wet.

That, the other Lex says, suddenly wary, is new.

No shit. Lex pulls away and stares at the blood. There are, he's sure, laws of physics that he's breaking doing this.

Instantly, Clark is kneeling in front of him, and the tickle is stronger, and Lex licks his lips, tasting blood. "Lex." Something against his nose, soft and smelling of copper and detergent, then Clark is tipping his head forward, trying to stop the bleeding.

Rupture, he offers up. It never occurred to me before now that just maybe, this sort of thing could be as hard on the body I'm borrowing as on mine. The other Lex isn't amused. Lex doesn't mind. 

A few long seconds pass in a blur. Lex's head is tipped back. The taste is on his tongue, coating his throat. If he were anyone else, he'd be nauseous, but this is all par for the course for him.

"How do you feel?" Clark says, what feels like hours later. Lex let his head back up, wondering if he cares enough to go to the bathroom and wash up. All systems report no interest in moving. That works.

"Okay, I think." Maybe he should sleep. This body doesn't feel unrested, but he spent a lot of his late twenties taking speed when he didn't feel like sleep was required for sanity. Not to mention his teens. He's not sure what a normal body is supposed to feel like. 

"Has this--has it happened before?"

"My body, yes." Though this is new and probably disturbing. Lex rubs, feeling the blood begin to flake off, half-dried, clinging. "Not so much in the host."

Clark is staring at him. "Did your--AI explain about complications? Interdimensional travel, even if it's not the body--" Clark stops short, taking a breath. "I--remember what the AI taught me. A little. It's fragmenting you."

That's the word. Like a click. "Yes."

"How long do you have here?"

"Two days."

Clark's hand on his jaw tilts his head down. Lex pushes the cloth against his nose, but no more bleeding. "Can it tell when you're going into distress?"

Lex wonders where this is going. "Constant monitoring of my body, yeah."

"No, here. This body."

That--Lex isn't sure of. "Maybe. I don't--it never came up." And in retrospect, after all this time, maybe he should have asked about that.

"It should have." Clark pushes up, hand slipping from his cheek. Lex almost leans into the fading touch, catching himself at the last minute. "I--this thing you're doing? It's been done before."

Lex blinks slowly. w"I--"

"It's been done before, and it isn't done often, because it's complicated. Moving a body is hard enough, but moving a mind--" Clark stops, frowning. "All those--four others? You bring them into every mind. It's--the human brain doesn't have that kind of capacity. Not for the lives of five people."

Lex almost smiles. "I'm not human."

"When you go back, there'll be six. And even I couldn't handle that."

Lex stops, staring. The implications aren't pretty. "I was--fine last time." He thinks. Maybe. "Some rest. Some relaxation."

"Some psychosis." Clark's breath catches. "It's cumulative. Your world--it's really dying, isn't it?"

Lex stares into the green eyes and doesn't flinch. "If this doesn't work, yes. It's already--" Bad. Nightmarish. And no end for anyone, not unless it's death. "It's--disassembled right now. It's pulling itself back together. There's no one left who can fight it and win."

Clark's mouth works for a second, then he looks away.

"How do you know so much?"

Clark's eyes stay down. "Before--before the AI was destroyed, it--called to me. We--it did this thing. I didn't get it all, but I got most of it." His head comes back up, and Lex feels a flare of other Lex's shock and hate and rage, and if it's like that, buried so far under Lex's consciousness, then Lex doesn't even *want* to know what it feels like up close and personal. Clark must see something of it on Lex's face. "Yeah, he didn't know about that."

Didn't know--and everything Clark says to him, this Lex knows too. Jesus. "Then why the hell are you telling me?"

Without a word, Clark kneels in front of him, and for a horrified moment, Lex thinks that this is all going to go south again, literally and metaphorically, but Clark just takes the cloth from his hand, flipping it to a clean side, and reaches up.

When he pulls it away from Lex, it's clotted in dark blood. "Because this jump, you're not going to survive."

*****

If his secretary looks confused, that's okay. Absolute obedience and unquestioning fear have so many excellent uses, and one of them is avoiding questions. "Where are we--how do you even *know*?"

Clark follows him to the elevator, murmuring the secondary passwords, and Jesus, he's not sure what's going on and isn't even sure he cares all that much. There's a fresh handful of tissue in his pocket and he's sniffing every time his nose tickles. He can't smell anything but blood.

"I know," Clark says, once the elevator starts going, "because I know what the AI knows. And it didn't send you into this without either really, really wanting you to die in a very obscure way or wanting you to succeed and be back in time for it to fix the damage."

Lex stares at the LED. "We're being recorded."

"You're the only one with access," Clark says. That almost makes sense. "Tell me--" Clark frowns, hands fisting. "I only know--it's been fixing you between?"

"Yes." Lex thinks of the third jump, shuddering a little. "I had neural damage after the third time. I was--treated." This last time, just some time in the lab, asleep, and hours to do nothing but sit and wait. "There weren't any--this last time, I came out fine." Give or take a bad dream, but who the hell *wouldn't*?

"Maybe." Clark stares at the falling numbers on the blinking screen like he's willing more speed. "I--there should be a--trigger. What pulls you out. Two days is the maximum before the brain starts breaking down under the pressure. Don't ask why. I don't know that much. But the core programming might."

Lex stares at the falling numbers, then sniffs back something liquid. Pulling out a tissue, he holds it up, wondering if he's going to be sick. It's like bathing in blood--the smell coats everything. 'The AI was destroyed." Lex imagines the AI in the arctic and shivers a little. Murder, the word fits.

"But we kept core functions." Clark leans forward, entering another code, and Lex freezes at the retinal scan. 

"That's new." There definitely hadn't been one of these in the elevator to the labs.

It hits Clark, too, and the door seems a little indecisive before sliding open. "No one comes down here but you and your pet programmers." Coming out, Lex take a glance around the single large room, then freezes at the massive structure at the center of the room. 

A weird, and unaesthetic, blend of human and alien technology, but Lex supposes that when yo'rue trying to make something work, you don't care much for how it looks. And huge, yes, a column of gunmetal and silver and blinking lights right in the middle, reaching up four stories. Christ. Makes LexCorp's computers looks really, really crappy. Workstations stationed on every level around it. 

Circling it, Lex takes in the keyboard, English, and the Kryptonian one behind. "He knows Kryptonian?"

"No. Lock out access."

Lex turns, blinking. Clark's still standing at the elevator, looking at him like he's an idiot.

"What?"

"Lock out all other personnel, unless you want to be interrupted. It's kind of a twenty-four seven to keep this thing going--it does all the work for the air and water purification Lex is doing, and holds all the data." Clark frowns at the doors. "The rotation is once every fifteen minutes, maintenance every night. Someone's gonna come down here."

Shit. No, no interruptions. Lex walks back, staring at the keypad, a mix of numbers, letters, and symbols. "Do you know the code?"

Clark shakes his head. And fuck. Also, fuck. "Right." And he has no fucking clue. Lifting a hand, Lex studies it a few seconds, a glance inside checking the inner--

\--and no. No. Lex drops his hand. "The only way I can do it is if I ask him, and trust me, I can't--invite him back up."

Far beneath, Lex can almost sense disappointment. Sorry, you sociopathic bastard, Lex thinks, with a little mental wave that is so much more petty than it feels. Just stay the fuck away or I'll start entertaining myself, and I'll start with your feet and work my way up.

"Can you take it out?" Lex says slowly, and beside him, he feels Clark twitch. Even from here, Lex can sense the kryptonite. Tiny. Just enough to keep him weak. Not enough to lead to--anything else.

"Maybe. But--" Clark stops, staring at the door for a second. "This is the only way down." You won't be able to get back out, he doesn't say. Clark with his almost-invulnerability, yes. Lex, not so much.

"That's okay," Lex says, taking a step back, then another. It all comes together, the most beautiful plan in creation. He's always been good with plans. "I don't plan to leave."

*****

It's enough like the AI for Lex to be disoriented--and some part of him keeps searching for the AI's voice, the instant communication that's forever missing. It hurts, and he didn't expect it, and every touch of his fingers on the keyboard reminds him more.

Clark, cross-legged on the floor, drones out access instructions, but his eyes keep flickering to Lex on the completely wrong keyboard. "Do you know Kryptonian?"

"You could say that." Lex flicks along the keys by memory, pulling up pages of data on the recovery effort, scrolling by, closing. "I've had a lot of time with the AI. What am I looking for?" So much fucking *data*. The AI's capacity was enough to hold an entire culture. This Lex had kept the capacity, and even with all of that, there was still room to spare to control the cleaning of an entire planet.

Clark pauses. "Access to the databases. We'll want the specs on the device the AI is using to send you through."

Not the hardest thing ever. Lex skims past things that, in another life--hell, in *his* other life--he'd be memorizing. Energy theory. Particle physics. Wormholes. Jesus. Fucking *space exploration*, on the galactic scale. The Kryptonians had beat the speed of light. This fucking *close* to folding space. 

Lex forces himself by it. "What do we need to know?"

"How to send a signal back to activate the pull out. The AI is probably handling it through a set of calculations--in your time, how long? Are you here?"

Lex frowns. "Ten minutes? Fifteen?"

Clark nods, like this all makes sense. Lex turns to watch the green eyes go distant. "Good enough. Okay. Found it?"

Lex scrolls faster, pushing a tissue against his nose at the next tickle. It's not as much as before, and he drops it in his lap. "There's not a lot here."

"It adapted from something." Suddenly, Clark is leaning over his shoulder, and the smells of shower gel and clean skin is almost overwhelming, even with the copper taint. Lex draws in a breath, pushing down completely inappropriate reactions, and forces himself to concentrate. "It's dangerous, so they didn't use it often." Clark's hand catches his. "Try from here."

All those fucking equations again. Lex lets them roll by. They make as much sense as the first time--vague recognition of something huge and physics-shaking that Earth science hasn't even come close to. "I remember seeing this."

"It built something to interface with you." Clark leans closer, and soft hair brushes Lex's cheek. "How long did it take?"

"A--a day." This is so the wrong time for this body to pull *any* shit like that. "Maybe more, but not much. I--" Don't remember.

Clark's hands push his out of the way, and Lex closes his eyes. "You--um, stupid question at this point. Childhood Kryptonite exposure?"

Lex almost smiles. "Yeah."

"Just double checking." Clark does something loud, computer making a weird noise. "Okay. Now--just have to--" Clark stops, and Lex opens his eyes on a nonsensical screen of random symbols. "It's going to take a while for it to--find you. Your--place." Abruptly, Clark leans back. "Not too long, I think."

Lex turns in the chair. Clark, standing only a few feet away, is watching him again, and this time, Lex knows the look. "It's hard to look at me." And see that other Lex still, no matter who inhabits the skin.

Clark smiles, and it's so sudden, so blinding, Lex's breath catches. It's like they just met. "No. It's just--it's you." The green eyes flick away, and Lex watches Clark pace away, banked energy in every jerky movement. "I thought--I thought this must have always been there, for him to--do this. That I was--that I was wrong."

Lex stiffens. That, he hadn't expected. "It was."

Clark shakes his head, smile fading from everywhere but his eyes. "No. You don't get it. I thought this was all there was. That that was all he could be. That'd I'd been wrong about him all that time."

Christ. "You weren't." Really weren't, and Lex's tongue tries to form the words, stop the hope he can feel like the sun. "Clark, it's not--I'm not--" That much better. Any better at all, really, but even Lex can't believe that. "In my world, we weren't friends."

"In your world, you didn't burn out the sky." Clark's stare is almost challenging. "He can be--he could--"

Oh God, no. No. "You can't--Clark, you can't help him. You can get the fuck *away* from him. You can kill him. You can sow the fucking ground he walked on with salt, but you can't *save* him."

Clark shakes his head. "You--"

"There's better, and there's worse than me. This man? You can't help. You can't change."

"Why the fuck *not*?"

This isn't Smallville. He won't let Clark hope that, let himself remember when he thought the same thing. "Clark, you're--while I'm in this body, you can *leave*. You can't stay because you think he'll change--"

"He's better than this! You--"

"I wasn't better!" 

Clark stares at him, chest heaving, marshalling a thousand arguments, filling his eyes like heat. They'll sound reasonable and sure, because this is Clark, and Clark is absolutely like no one ever born. He believes things. Incredibly stupid things. But he believes them.

"We were enemies." Lex takes a deep breath. "We hated each other. We tried to kill each other. When I get back--when I get back, I don't have any enemies left. Superman's *dead*. And I'll be able to--" Lex feels his voice catch. "If I want it, the world is mine."

"Do you want it?"

Do I?

Yes. It would be easy to say the word, but it's not true, not the way it should be, not the way it's supposed to be--the culmination of a lifetime and he's. Not. Sure. "I don't know."

Like this. This easy. No.

The green eyes hold his. "What's the difference?"

That's the hell of it. "I don't know."

Clark stares at him, like he just might try to argue the point, and Lex searches for every argument he can think of. There aren't any. The Clark of his world had known, in the end, and hadn't at all. He'd died for it. This one--won't. "He has to want to, Clark."

Wanting so desperately to believe in something better. "Lex--"

"I *know*. What he is. Who he is. And you do too. This is--" Lex motions around the room, trying to ignore the chill bite of the air. A computer built on the remains of a murdered AI. A world built on a single, burning vision of winning at all costs, any cost. "You don't go this far if you ever plan to come back. You never go this far when you think you might want to. There's nothing *here*."

Clark turns away, and Lex slumps down, rubbing his temples. The low-grade pain makes him nervous now--aneurysm, blood clot, maybe some kind of strange neural damage. His body can heal anything, given enough time. Rubbing his nose, his fingers come away clean.

"Let me see." A rough hand tilts up his chin. Lex doesn't bother pulling away, closing his eyes as Clark's hand tightens, turning his head. "Okay, so far so good."

"The third time--" Lex stops, opening his eyes to see Clark crouching in front of him. "There was--"

"Combination?" 

Lex nods.

"Fourth time?"

"No as much."

Clark nods, like it makes some kind of sense. "The AI is--I think it can fix most of the damage. It's just--" Clark shakes his head. "Even with your mutation, it's dangerous."

"Apocalypse is an amazing motivator." Straightening, Lex pulls away from the now gentle hand, glancing at the screen. Still sheets of numbers, flowing by like water. A world's entire culture, everything it was or would ever be, here. And in Clark. 

Clark, and Lex now knew what was in his head, and how he'd hidden it. Lex leans over, pulling up a screen. A few flicks of the keys, and a different kind of information rolls by, more comprehensible than Kryptonian, but not by much.

"Lex?"

"Is this hooked up to the LexCorp network?" Copying every file he can get. 

"Yeah."

"This has all the core commands and functions?"

"Heavily encrypted." Clark stops short. "What are you doing?"

"When this is over, you have to kill him." Lex leans down, pulling up the edge of his pant leg, feeling the ankle holster beneath. Some things will always remain the same. Unfastening the flap, Lex pulls out the gun, still watching the screen, then holds it out, hilt first. "Two shots to the back of the head. If you wipe out higher brain function, the body won't be able to access enough neurons to complete regeneration." Even if it can, the regenerated body won't be anything more than a vegetable. Lex can live with that.

Beside him, Clark is very still. "I--can't."

"This is where you don't say that." There's no way he can send the entirety of a database like this over the network, but he can send enough for others to break in and take it. Backdoors, codes, and everything in between. Kryptonian algorithms make him wish, a little wistfully, that he had time to learn. Amazing. "This is where you say, yes."

When Lex looks at him, Clark is staring at the gun with wide, disbelieving eyes, and the hands fisted at his side are shaking. "Lex--"

His Clark could never kill in cold blood. This one-- "You know what he is."

"That doesn't mean--"

Lex lets his hand drop. "You said you wanted to remember the last time you did something good. This? Is good."

"Murder is never--"

"It's not murder. It's--" Putting down a rabid dog. In the back of his mind, the other Lex simmers, that slow angry boil that never cools, never calms, never rests. He could be this, so easily. So fucking easily. "Clark--"

"I can't kill him."

And it's like *that*, like stone, like writing on the wall, and Lex stares at the gun for a second. Far below, he can feel the restlessness rise up, nipping at the edge of his mind with sharp, broken teeth. So angry. And so fucking *stupid*, too dangerously smart, too ruthless, to be safe in a locked room, a locked cage, anywhere he can breathe. I *know*, Lex had told Clark, and it's true. This man can't leave this room alive. "He can't be free, Clark. Not now." Not ever.

"I can--"

"You can't. Not with him. Not ever."

He'll die if he does, murmurs the other Lex, so low that it could be his own thought. Where else will he go? What will he do? What do you think we left of him that can do anything at all?

Holding the green eyes, Lex takes a breath. The gun is warm in his hand. His palm isn't even sweating. "I can do it myself."

Clark startles like a deer, eyes widening. "No."

"I can do it when I feel the pull of the AI, before he gets control back." There's a weird kind of freedom in it--almost a trade. His head's aching, and he can't smell anything but his own blood. He might not make it back sane. He might not make it back at all. A trade. The universe that Clark died to save will die, but this one won't. Clark's always been resiliant. He'll get through this. He can get the world through this. "He can't--Clark." 

Clark just stands there, disbelieving and not understanding. His Clark had never understood sacrifice either, not really. "I don't believe that."

"I do. I know. There's nothing left to save. There hasn't been in longer than--" Maybe the length of Clark's life. Lex isn't sure. The other Lex is shifting with every drop of blood, and Lex wipes it away with a sleeve, licking his upper lip. Copper-bright, somehow reassuring. Maybe the gun won't even be necessary. But overkill's never a bad idea.

Maybe--

The sudden spurt of blood surprises him--Clark moves almost too fast to see, pressing soaked tissues over and over, the other Lex surfacing in the far back of his mind, pressing hard fingers into his temples like guns, pushing toward the surface of this thoughts--

\--don't let him--

\--and in the far off distance, Lex feels it start.

"Not yet," he whispers. He can feel Clark urging him to the floor, on his hands and knees, blood soaking a shirt now, and when he looks up, he sees Clark, pale and terrified through red-glazed eyes. The other Lex pushes, pushes *hard*, reaching out--

\--that gun has kryptonite bullets.

"Christ," he whispers, fighting the AI, fighting Lex. Not yet. Not like this. Not when he's not done. "Clark, I can feel--it's--"

Clark's hand is gentle against his face. "You have to go back. I can--"

"You can't," and the other Lex echoes it, amused and enraged and too strong. He won't kill Clark. He'd never kill Clark. He hates him too much to ever give him that kind of peace. "Kill him, Clark." The gun is--somewhere, Lex thinks vaguely, reaching out a groping hand. One shot and he can do this to himself, he still has enough control for that. He can just--reach out. Push it against his chin. Pull the trigger. 

"No, Lex." Hands cup his face, green eyes staring into his. "That's not who I am."

No. "And he's not what you think he can be," Lex whispers, the floor dissolving beneath him. "You can't save him."

Clark's thumb touches his lips, achingly sweet, painfully slow, the middle of a dying world, a field in Virginia. Christ. He can't do this, he can't live with this, he shouldn't *have* to. And for the life of him, Lex isn't sure he means Clark or himself. "But I can save you."

The last thing he sees is Clark's smile and then there's nothing.


End file.
